


And See How Bright We Shine

by Imoshen



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: (this time), AU, Anal Sex, Bottom Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Bottom Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Brief Violence, Clothes Porn, Fantasy World, Flirting, Fluff and pining, Gentle Sex, Happy Ending, Kissing, Lord Nicky | Nicolo di Genova, Love Bites, M/M, Marking, Pining, Prince Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Top Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Top Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, a dash of angst, all the royalty, ambushes, and gets to undress him, by which I mean Nico has a thing for Yusuf's clothes, mention of semi-public sex, switches Yusuf and Nicolo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:54:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 34,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28361253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imoshen/pseuds/Imoshen
Summary: Lord Nicolò di Genova visits Tunis for the Sultana's birthday. He meets her son, Prince Yusuf, and what was meant to be a little mutual enjoyment... well. Nicolò did not intend to lose his heart in Tunis, and is he the right person to stand at the Prince's side?(Yusuf very much thinks so. To convince Nicolò of that, though...)
Relationships: Background Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, bakground Nile Freeman/Lykon, very background Jafar/Jasmine/Aladdin
Comments: 232
Kudos: 451





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t usually put long Author’s Notes at the beginning of my fics, but with this one, I feel it’s necessary, so please bear with me. There are a few spoilers in here, but I think if you read the tags you might know most of those already.  
> I have used names of places in this story to give it pseudo-historical shine and because I think we all have images in our head far easier when the names of places are familiar, but this is AU in more ways than that there are no Immortals here.  
> This is a world that is the way I would wish it to be, where same-sex or multiple-partner-relationships are accepted and nothing to frown at. This is a place where Christianity didn’t decide they were in possession of the Single Truth and proceeded to fuck up most of the known world. This is a world in which religions get along the way we should: with respect, with love, with acceptance.  
> Tunisia is its own country, ruled by a Sultana. Nubia is a country ruled by Queen Nile and her Consort. (I couldn’t not make Nile Queen of a country that thrives because of the river she shares a name with.) Andromache and Quỳnh rule some vast territory to the north that might be in Russia, might be in Mongolia, might be wherever you want it to be. With me tagging Jafar/Jasmine/Aladdin up there, that should give you a hint that this world is a step removed from what we know. Agrabah is just around the corner. (Please bear in mind that this would be an AU for that movie, too. I realize Jafar is a massive ass in that universe and really, really should reconsider his choices. I haven’t yet poked at that too much, but imagine him a little younger, a little softer, a little less insane… I think a street rat named Aladdin and a strong woman named Jasmine would be able to handle that man and make him see that power isn't the only way. Maybe I’m a hopeless romantic, too.)
> 
> All this is to say: I mean no offense in depicting the events of this fic. I hope you enjoy this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. I poured three months of almost daily work into this baby, it was one of the first things I began to write in this fandom.  
> It feels a little daunting to release it into the world now, but stories are meant to be shared, so here we go.
> 
> The title is taken from the Musical Wicked, specifically the song “As long as you’re mine”, because I heard it one day while working on this and went… oh.
> 
> The fic is finished, and will update at least once a week as I work my way through the edits. And yes, we will earn that rating in later chapters.
> 
> ~ * ~

The invitation to the birthday celebration of the Sultana of Tunisia arrives at the worst possible time for the Genovese noble houses. With so many weddings taking place that year among the nobles of allied cities and states, many formal invitations have arrived within a short span of time, and none of them can be passed over if the Doge doesn’t want to risk weakening those alliances. With the ever-spreading Empire in the north, alliances among those noble houses are doubly important, but to not attend the Sultana is a monumentally stupid idea. She is a powerful woman, and while it is a well-known truth that she is scrupulously fair to enemies and allies alike, she also never forgets a slight. Genoa can very much not afford to make an enemy of Tunisia, not with making an enemy of Cordoba and Al-Andalus as well.

In the end, the decision to send a slightly-smaller-than-usual diplomatic party is made. There will be appropriate apologies for the lacking numbers and assurances that Genoa is still holding the alliance with Tunis in the highest regard, and the Doge hopes the Sultana will be appeased with that. She, after all, must know about the truly vast number of marriages taking place this year, too.

There is a limited choice of high-ranking nobles available who can be spared for the length of time it takes to sail to Tunis, take part in the celebrations, and then sail back to Genoa. The Doge finally decides on a younger man, one who is more likely to work for Genoa and the Doge’s interests than his own.

Nicolò, when presented with his honorable task, does _not_ panic. This is mostly by virtue of being immediately too busy with preparations to panic, but he is a soldier and has been well-educated. He still sends a quick prayer of gratefulness heavenwards for the fact that his tutors had not let him get away with ignoring the lessons on diplomacy. Sailing with the merchant ships as the armed escort over the years has, at the very least, greatly improved his grasp on languages that aren’t Ligurian or Latin, and the duration of the voyage across the Roman Sea is enough to re-familiarize himself with Tunisia’s Arabic. He practices his greeting to the Sultana until he is certain he will not stumble over the words and disgrace himself and, by extension, his home. Sebastien, who is accompanying him officially as the Doge di Genova’s junior advisor and less-than-officially as a spy, teases him mercilessly over his efforts, but in the end even he is satisfied Nicolò is as well-prepared as can be.

All of this means that he feels relatively well-prepared for his task when he rides into the courtyard of the Tunis Palace at the head of the Genovese party. It is a feeling that accompanies him through the sun-drenched courtyard, along the palm-shaded hallway leading into the main palace, and all the way into what he learns is the First Hall, named so because it is where the Sultana will greet guests for the first time.

That Hall is where his composure very nearly fails him.

Nicolò, when he is later able to think clearly again, remembers to be grateful there is already a group of new arrivals in the Hall and in the lengthy process of greeting the Sultana, because he needs several minutes until his thoughts return to the task at hand.

It’s not the splendor of the hall, or the Sultana herself, though she is an attractive woman and an impressive sight on her throne, her rich clothes and jewels gleaming in the light streaming in through the windows.

No, Nicolò’s whole attention is captured by the man who stands next to the throne. He bears enough of a resemblance to the Sultana to place him as her son – Nicolò recalls hearing about the eldest sons, twin brothers who are maybe a year or two older than Nicolò himself is, when he permitted to sit in on political discussions in Genoa. What first catches Nicolò’s attention with such utter ruthlessness is how the deep burgundy of his robe accentuates his broad shoulders. The fabric is richly embellished with bronze needlework and gemstones, and Nicolò is enough of a merchant’s son and enough of a noble to recognize how exquisite the work is, but that, along with the worth of the garment – it must be silk, nothing else has that particular sheen – is more than secondary. Nicolò’s eye is drawn to the turban, making the man appear even taller, wound neatly around his head. The man shifts a little, and Nicolò’s gaze drops down to his hand – and the wide sash wrapped around his middle, as brightly colored as the turban. There is a dagger tucked into the fabric, and Nicolò wonders if it is ceremonial, a blade with blunt edges meant for decoration, or if it is carefully sharpened and meant for actual use.

Nobody has permission to carry a weapon in the presence of the Sultana except the guards, but then again, her own family is probably an exception.

The rich clothing is beautiful, and certainly catches Nicolò’s eye, but his attention is _held_ by other things. Those eyes, dark and focused not on him but the party currently greeting the Sultana, are... kind, filled with warmth in a way Nicolò is captivated by. There is a slight smile playing about full lips, speaking of amusement or maybe fondness. One long-fingered hand is resting on the dagger tucked into the sash, less a threat and more an idle gesture, and one finger is rubbing back and forth over the bronze length of cord that appears to be holding sash and weapon in place. It is such a small gesture, but a familiar one - Nicolò himself usually finds himself tracing the stitching of his clothing, or a line of embroidery when he is bored but has no means of escape. It turns the man from a foreign Prince, a beautiful but unknown entity into someone Nicolò wants to _know_... and more than that, if he’s being honest with himself.

It has been many months since he had time and interest to find a lover, or even a partner for a night. Now, Nicolò finds his hands itching with the desire to unwind the sash, unwrap all that silk and see if those shoulders are as broad as they appear. He wants to see him spread out beneath the light of the sun, or better yet – in the intimate light a bedroom’s hearth will provide, splayed out over the ruin of his clothing. He would look resplendent, Nicolò is sure. Would those expressive eyes remain open? Or would they close in pleasure?

How he manages to wrench his attention back to the task at hand, Nicolò has no idea. He does not stumble or stutter his way through his greeting to the Sultana, but it takes a great deal more concentration than it should have, his gaze constantly trying to drift to the Prince standing beside her. The Sultana names him as Prince Yusuf in her reply, welcoming Nicolò and his party at her court in both their names.

Nicolò remembers enough to know that Prince Yusuf is the elder of the twins and uses the appropriate honorifics in his reply – or close enough, as nobody takes offense. Nicolò breathes a sigh of relief once they’re dismissed into the care of a servant, to be shown to the rooms that have been set aside for them.

“You alright there, Nico?” Sebastien asks him quietly once they’re out of the hall and follow the servant down the long corridors. Nico grimaces and nods.

“I didn’t expect the Prince to be there,” he says quietly. It’s not the whole truth, but it will have to be enough if he doesn’t want to be teased endlessly by the spy he was fool enough to befriend. Sebastien takes it as blanket permission to tease Nicolò to his heart’s content every time they meet. “I didn’t know the Sultana had already decided on her successor.”

Sebastien frowns at him but accepts the excuse. “There have been rumors,” is all he says. “I’ll tell you later.”

Later, Nicolò knows, will be in the privacy of their guest quarters. Eavesdropping on conversations held in courtyards or gardens or the palace halls is an accepted way of gathering information but violating the privacy of a guest in their quarters is considered a grave insult to both the guest in question and the host here. He wishes that policy held true in Genoa, too.

The Sultana’s Birthday Feast is yet several days away, but the evening meal is a feast of its own, Nicolò learns. The room they are led to is not quite as grand as the First Hall and has a slightly more intimate feel to it – though that may be the many tables, and the spicy scents of food in the air.

Nicolò and the Genovese party share a table with a black woman and her entourage. She greets them with a warm smile, as the man at her side introduces her as Queen Nile of Nubia, the great country along the river she shares a name with. Nicolò bows over her hand and introduces her to his companions, and he must meet her approval because she directs him to the seat next to hers. Over the course of dinner, she provides him with her insights and personal opinions on the other diplomatic parties scattered throughout the room. Her commentary is sharp and no-nonsense, and Nicolò finds he values her opinions for their naked honesty. Queen Nile is obviously not in the habit of keeping her silence over what displeases her.

“…and he is _Crown_ Prince Stephen of England.” Queen Nile uses her goblet to indicate the man she is talking about. The way she emphasized the _Crown_ part of his title, the tone of her voice makes it obvious she disapproves of him even before she continues. “Most unpleasant character. He has the unfortunate habit to talk all over his conversation partner, especially if allowed to talk about himself and his frankly unwelcome opinions.”

Nicolò winces. “You are speaking from experience?”

Queen Nile nods. “He was seated at my table yesterday,” she says. “I do believe the Sultana realized I would politely stab him with my fork if that occurrence repeated itself and rescheduled accordingly. He is seated next to a noble of Tunisia today.”

Nicolò decides that he likes Queen Nile. His attention nonetheless keeps drifting to where Prince Yusuf is seated next to the Sultana, and the bronze embroidery of his clothing still gleams in the candlelight and catches Nicolò’s gaze. Queen Nile must notice, and there is a little smile playing around her mouth, but she doesn’t say anything until the meal is over.

The platters of food are carried out of the hall, and almost before the last one is gone musicians take the place where the tables with the platters were. Queen Nile sets her goblet down and looks Nicolò straight in the eye. “Grant me a dance, Lord Nicolò.”

Nicolò isn't fool enough to ignore such an order, so he stands and escorts her to the dance floor. The music is slightly unfamiliar, but a quick glance at other couples shows him enough to recognize the steps to the dance itself. The music helps, and Queen Nile beams at him.

“You are good,” she praises. “That is well. He will certainly notice.”

Nicolò blinks at her. “I am sure I do not know what you mean, Your Majesty.”

She laughs and twirls into a spin, her green-and-gold dress and scarves flying out around her. The gold circlet pinned to her braids doesn’t move an inch. Nicolò catches her when she spins back just as easily. “I saw your gaze drift to Prince Yusuf,” she says, quietly enough nobody will be able to hear her over the music. “I recognize the look in your eye from my dear Lykon”, a nod to the table, where Prince Consort Lykon and Sebastien have their heads bowed together, “but it would be very rude of me to just introduce you in a setting such as this. Much better to draw his attention and have him come to you, Nicolò.”

“You are a very smart woman,” Nicolò compliments her, meaning every word. “I would not wish to ever have you as my enemy.”

“Then I do not believe we will ever meet as enemies,” she tells him with a sweet smile, and Nicolò twirls her into another spin and smiles and resolutely does _not_ try to see if Prince Yusuf’s attention is, indeed, on them.

Queen Nile deserves his entire focus.

The music changes, and Nicolò finds himself with a new partner for each dance. He shows them the same courtesy as he did Queen Nile, gives them his full attention for the dance. It is how he makes the acquaintance of Queen Consort Quỳnh and learns her wife, the Queen Andromache, only dances when it is unavoidable. She is delighted when he offers to pair her for a dance each evening and accepts eagerly, but Nicolò has just as much fun as she does – Quỳnh is a good dancer, and she, too, has to offer insights about the other guests.

“He’s Lord Keane,” she tells Nicolò as they pass another pair, the woman looking bored and the man clearly uninterested in the actual dance. “He’s from Normandy. Nobody is quite sure if he’s allied with Prince Stephen or plans to assassinate him, and I am beginning to suspect he isn't quite sure of that yet, himself.”

“Delightful,” Nicolò offers dryly and spins her into another quick flourish. Quỳnh’s skirts brush his ankles. “That is exactly the sort of ally I would wish for.”

Quỳnh’s bright laughter draws the attention of several people, and Nicolò smiles as the music comes to an end and bows to her. “I do believe I had better return your hand to your wife,” he tells her, and then Queen Andromache is there and taking Quynh’s hand, her dark eyes sharp on Nicolò. They warm a little when he steps back immediately and offers her a bow as well. Quỳnh, mirth still dancing in her dark eyes, doesn’t miss a beat.

“Lord Nicolò, may I introduce my wife, Andromache of Scythia, Goddess-Queen of the Steppes. Andromache, the Lord Nicolò of Genova.”

Queen Andromache looks him up and down, then extends a hand. Nicolò, who has heard a little of the reputation of the woman who is revered almost as a goddess by her people, does not make the mistake to bow over it as he would have for most of the other women in the hall. Instead, he takes it in the fashion of warriors: clasps her forearm, and feels her strong fingers wrap around his own. She looks at him with something that might be respect. “I have not seen you in this court before,” is her greeting. Nicolò almost smiles at her bluntness, a refreshing change from most nobles.

“I have not been here before,” he agrees. “The Doge did not wish to offend the Sultana, but with so many marriages among allied nations we have had to send out smaller parties, and younger sons.”

The music has started up again, and all around them couples swing into dance once more. Quỳnh takes Queen Andromache’s hand, a gleeful smile on her face. “Wife, now that you already _are_ on the dance floor, you will dance with me!”

Queen Andromache sighs as if it is a great sacrifice, but when she turns to Nicolò again, he can see the warmth lingering in her eyes. “I will see you again, Nicolò of Genova,” she says. “You made my wife laugh, that alone is reason to get to know you better.”

“I look forward to it,” Nicolò assures her, and steps back as Queen Andromache takes Quỳnh into the dance.

He isn't quite prepared to turn around with a vague thought of returning to his own seat for a drink and come face-to-face with the man he has been admiring from afar since he first saw him earlier that day.

Up close, Prince Yusuf’s shoulders seem even broader. Nicolò offers him a bow and a greeting in what he hopes is correct Arabic. “Prince Yusuf, it is my honor.”

“The honor is mine,” Prince Yusuf replies. Nicolò straightens and finds, to his surprise, that the Prince is not that much taller than he is. The turban definitely works in his favor in that regard. “I saw a man bring laughter to Quỳnh’s lips and not be intimidated by her wife, and decided I had to meet him.”

Nicolò doesn’t glance to the dancing couples, but he can still see a flash of Quỳnh’s bright yellow dress behind Prince Yusuf’s broad shoulder. “I very much enjoyed her company,” he says, carefully, testing the waters. “I do hope I will eventually be forgiven for helping her lure her wife into a dance.”

Prince Yusuf smiles, and it’s a beautiful expression. His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, and his entire expression softens. Nicolò wants to see it again, find out all the ways he can cause that smile to appear, and then be able to kiss it off the Prince’s lips. “I do believe you will. Would you care to dance again, or prefer to sit this one out?”

Nicolò is thirsty, and his feet are reminding him he is not used to wearing elegant shoes for such a length of time anymore. None of that matters, not right now. He accepts the hand the Prince is holding out in offering, bows over it. “I would be honored Your Highness,” he says. Prince Yusuf squeezes his hand, and his smile turns just a little wicked at the edges.

Dancing with Prince Yusuf is a remarkable experience. Nicolò had expected the Prince to take the lead, but he hadn’t expected it to be so easy to let himself be led. Prince Yusuf’s hands are warm even through the layers of his clothing, and while there’s nothing inappropriate in where the one on his back rests… well, Nicolò knows all the little signs. It is a language of its own, developed in courts all over the known world and barely varies from court to court. He lets his own hand slide a little bit further inward on the Prince’s shoulder, a little bit further down. The silk of his robe is almost like a caress beneath Nicolò’s fingers.

Prince Yusuf makes a pleased sound, and on the next spin, pulls Nicolò in a little closer. “I have not seen you at court before,” he begins quietly, loud enough for Nicolò to hear him but not loud enough to be heard over the music. “I am sure I would remember someone like you.”

“I have not been to this court before, Your Highness,” Nicolò agrees, turning his head a little to hear and be heard more easily. If it also means his breath strokes across Prince Yusuf’s cheek, well, that is a lucky coincidence. “I may have to see if that can be changed.”

An amused hum is his reward. Prince Yusuf steers them past another couple and spins Nicolò out into a tight twirl, catches him in his arms again with ease. “And what would be the reason for this change of heart?” he asks, and his dark eyes are dancing with amusement. Nicolò finds it impossible not to smile back.

“I find myself… _captivated_ ,” he offers. Prince Yusuf blinks and chuckles, a quiet expression of amusement that Nicolò thinks could be a beautiful laugh. “Maybe I wish to… _explore_ the sights of his land further.”

Another huff of amusement, and Prince Yusuf leads him through a complicated series of steps Nicolò doesn’t fumble only because he’s used to the limited space a ship’s deck provides and practicing his swordplay in that limited space. Prince Yusuf’s hands tighten a little on him. “The sights of the land,” the Prince muses, and there’s a grin lurking in the corner of his mouth, well-hidden by the tilt of his head. “Did you have any particular sights in mind?”

“I do,” Nicolò admits easily, and by God, this is probably the worst metaphor he could have picked but it is such _fun_ , and the Prince is playing along, his beautiful eyes dancing with amusement. “One in particular, but I was warned that it is well-guarded, and I should approach it with all due caution.”

Prince Yusuf’s laugh is near-silent, but it vibrates against Nicolò’s hand where it’s resting on his shoulder. “I do believe this particular sight is well within your reach, Lord Nicolò.”

Nicolò bites the inside of his lower lip and sucks in a sharp breath, because he was right: Prince Yusuf is beautiful when he laughs, and now that he has been the cause of it, even near-silent and short, he wants to hear it again. “Is it?” he asks when he thinks he has his voice under control. “I would not wish to presume.”

They pass another couple mid-twirl and Prince Yusuf pulls Nicolò in a little closer to avoid the lady’s skirts tangling around his legs. Nicolò does not return to the former distance once they are past, not for the entirety of the dance. When the music finally winds to a close, Prince Yusuf’s breath ghosts over his ear.

“I will find you in an hour,” he says, low and promising. “I can slip away without causing insult then.”

“I will be here,” Nicolò agrees, and watches the Prince walk away for a moment before he returns to his table, and a much-needed goblet of clear water.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yusuf and Nicolò, the first night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all those lovely comments and kudos! You all made my day a little better and a little brighter.
> 
> On to chapter two! This is where we earn the E-rating for the first time!

The remaining hour Yusuf knows he must be present for at the festivities seems to drag on endlessly. It is not usually that way, and he has a lot of experience with these kinds of events. He has been a part of them since he reached the age at which he was officially made part of the court. Since their father’s death, he and his brother had taken turns in appearing at their mother’s side… but his brother has departed and will not return for quite some time yet, if at all. And even if he does return, he will likely not be available to appear in his former role. Yusuf bitterly reflects that he should get used to interminable feasts, at least until their sister Maryam is old enough to appear in court.

His consolation is that he is still free to choose who to invite to his rooms. Yusuf’s gaze follows the man he danced with, Nicolò, as he is invited to sit with Andromache and Quỳnh. They must really like him, and that alone says positive things about Lord Nicolò di Genova. Andromache does not suffer fools.

“You do realize,” his mother says quietly, barely moving her mouth so nobody will be able to read her lips as she speaks, “that it will be noticed you danced with one person only, all night, yes?”

Yusuf very carefully does not flinch. “I realize many things,” he answers, does not look her way. “Among them that I have not yet sworn any vows I am beholden to that might interfere in matters of my own bedchamber.”

To his surprise, his mother laughs. It’s near silent and quickly stifled, but true, nonetheless. Yusuf knows it well, having spent so much time at court with her. “You are my son indeed,” she finally says. Her voice is lighter, as if she is still smiling. Yusuf dares to look away from the dancers and glance at her, and indeed there is a small smile playing around her mouth. “I am not asking you to change your intentions for the night, Yusuf.”

Not for the first time, he wishes his brother were here to share the duties. Yusuf sighs, drains his goblet, and returns to the dancers once the current piece is ended. Prince Stephen is already coming his way, open expectation on his face, and there is no polite way to avoid the man. Yusuf mentally steels himself for a very unpleasant dance. He will write a very stern letter to his brother about running away and leaving him alone to deal with this. Tomorrow.

Another decision of the night is that he will burn these clothes. Prince Stephen was all over him for the single dance Yusuf allowed, plucking at fabric suggestively and stroking his fingers where they were most definitely not welcome. Just a few generations back, Yusuf would have been well within his rights to demand those fingers be removed permanently from _Prince_ Stephen’s hand… he still would be, but the international tableau has shifted. Such a slight offense would be exceedingly difficult to use as grounds for such a harsh punishment.

Maybe the man just is that bad at reading a room and making his interest known in a subtle way. Yusuf bows to the last lady he shared a dance with, her engagement jewelry glinting bright in the candlelight and her fiancé’s gaze warm where he is awaiting her return. Yusuf takes the time to walk her over to him and pass her hand into his. “Thank you for the excellent dance, Lady Ameera.”

“It was my pleasure, Your Highness,” she answers, but her eyes are already on her fiancé. Yusuf smiles and leaves them to it. Young love is a beautiful thing to witness, and to be able to wed for love is a rare treat.

The thought almost sours his mood again, because unless he manages to find someone he can fall in love with who his mother will approve of, he will certainly not be able to wed for love. Enough, Yusuf thinks, and scans the room for the Genovese Lord who flirted so carefully with him. The hour may not quite be up, but he has done as his mother requested and shared dances with several of their guests, and currently the dancers are dwindling in numbers anyway. The evening is winding to an end, and Yusuf has no wish to be invited for a stroll through the gardens by anyone, with the possible exception of Nicolò.

The man meets his gaze through the room, gives him a tiny nod and returns to his conversation. Yusuf watches as he extracts himself within a few sentences, sets his goblet down at an empty table, and disappears through one of the doors leading to the corridor towards the guest’s wing. Yusuf glances at his mother, who doesn’t notice (or doesn’t let him know she noticed, either is possible) and follows.

Nicolò is waiting for him at the first of the open arches granting a view of the smaller gardens. He’s not obvious in it, leaning against the wall as if he just paused to take in the pretty picture the garden makes at night, intersections lit with lanterns that allow people to navigate the paths. Yusuf walks up next to him and tries to imagine seeing it for the first time. “Would you like a closer look?”

“It depends,” Nicolò says calmly, shifting away from his relaxed lean to stand tall beside Yusuf. They are almost of a height, Yusuf notices again now that they are standing side by side. He tries not to think about what that implies about what kissing Nicolò might be like. “Is there a way to your chambers through the garden? Because I find I’d much rather see more of them than gardens.”

Yusuf grins, delighted with this man and his polite but direct approach. “There is a way,” he promises, holds out an arm, and Lord Nicolò takes both the hint and the offered arm. They step down onto the path side by side and walk through the garden in companionable silence. Nicolò’s warmth seeps through the layers of Yusuf’s clothing where his hand is resting in the crook of Yusuf’s elbow, and where he’d usually point out beautiful views and thoughtful arrangements, he finds himself picking the fastest way through the garden. He is impatient to be out of view, behind the doors to his own rooms.

“No guards?” Nicolò asks quietly when Yusuf guides him up the stairs into the family’s wing of the palace. Yusuf chuckles.

“They are not in plain sight, and that is all I can share.”

Nicolò glances up at him from the corner of his eye, and the curl of his lips speaks of his amusement. “Then I will not ask.”

The joys of being with someone who understands Yusuf’s loyalties, and doesn’t take it as a slight against their honor, is a relief and one Yusuf intends to repay Nicolò for once they are in the privacy of his own rooms.

Nicolò releases his arm once they step through the doors to Yusuf’s rooms, and Yusuf lets him wander further in while he makes sure the doors are locked. He leaves the key in the lock because he doesn’t want to lock Nicolò in, but he certainly wants to lock the world out for the rest of the night.

When he turns, Nicolò has found the lamps and turned the flames up. He’s bathed in the warm glow, silhouetted against the night sky where he stands in the middle of Yusuf’s small reception room, and Yusuf finds it abruptly rather hard to breathe. Merciful Allah, the man is _beautiful_.

Nicolò raises an eyebrow at him, and Yusuf gives himself a shake and closes the distance between them, steps so close their clothes are brushing and Nicolò has to lean back just a little to look at him. “May I kiss you now?”

“Please,” Nicolò agrees. He leans into Yusuf, or maybe Yusuf leans into him, he has no idea. What he knows is that Nicolò’s mouth is warm and wet and tastes a little of the cool mint tea he must have drunk last. He doesn’t shy back when Yusuf reaches for him, wraps an arm around his waist and cups a palm around the back of his neck. His hands stroke up Yusuf’s chest over the layers of his clothes, then dig in when Yusuf flicks his tongue against Nicolò’s.

They’re both a little out of breath when that first kiss ends. Nicolò’s fingers unclench from their grip on Yusuf’s clothing, and he rubs over the smooth silk with a little noise Yusuf can’t quite identify. “I wanted to peel you out of these when I first saw you,” he murmurs, his Arabic a little more accented now. It’s lovely. “Wanted to find out if your shoulders were as broad as this made them look.”

Yusuf allows his fingers to tangle in the short hairs at the back of Nicolò’s head, feel how soft they are. He wants to undo the leather tie keeping the rest of it in place, run his fingers through the strands and see how Nicolò looks when he’s a little disheveled. “What is keeping you?”

Nicolò’s eyes flick up to his face. They are darker now than they were when they danced, and there is a spark there Yusuf recognizes. He gentles his hold on Nicolò’s waist just a little, breathes in and licks his lips. Then he’s being pulled into another kiss, this one involving a hint of teeth. Yusuf shivers when Nicolò nips his lip, leans into him further, and Nicolò takes his weight easily, holds him up with strong arms and firm touches. They are _very_ out of breath when this kiss ends.

“What is keeping me,” Nicolò murmurs by Yusuf’s ear, his lips so hot against the tender skin of his neck, “is that I have no idea where your bed is.”

They’re still standing in his reception room, Yusuf realizes with a little start. He hasn’t gotten this caught up in a lover in a while, especially not someone he has just met.

“Let me show you,” he murmurs back, feels Nicolò’s grip on him tighten for a moment before he’s released – but Nicolò catches his hand and holds it tight.

“Lead the way.”

Yusuf does, feeling Nicolò’s gaze on him the entire time, the warmth of his hand around Yusuf’s a promise in itself. The banked fire in the hearth tells of servants having been in, which is good because Yusuf certainly has no presence of mind to take care of such things as re-building a fire. In fact, as soon as Nicolò uses the grip on his hand to halt him and turn him around, he loses all presence of mind for anything but the gleam in Nicolò’s eyes, that spark having turned into a fire of its own while Yusuf wasn’t looking.

Nicolò backs him up, step by step, until he’s bathed in the light from the fireplace and the lamp someone (probably the same servant) left at a low flame. Nicolò doesn’t look away from him once, and his mouth is tugging into a small, private little smile as Yusuf allows himself to be positioned where Nicolò wants him to be. Long, slender fingers drift up to play with the topmost fastening of Yusuf’s outermost layer.

“How many layers do I have to peel you out of, then?” he asks softly, flicking the first hook open. It’s such a small gesture, but Yusuf still shivers for it.

“Several,” he admits. “Court attire.”

The next hook is flicked open, and the fabric parts a little further to reveal his tunic. Nicolò hums and traces the bronze stitching of his outer robe. “It is beautiful,” he says as his fingers slide down to the next clasp, and alright, maybe the clothes won’t get burned. Yusuf rests his hands on Nicolò’s waist again, feels the silk of his tunic beneath his hands, the strong body beneath.

“Can I tempt you into going a little faster?” he asks, and Nicolò grins and leans up for a quick kiss.

“No,” he breathes against Yusuf’s mouth. “I spent most of that feast after our dance thinking about this, I will not be hurried now. You will have to bear it.”

“Such cruelty,” Yusuf bemoans, delighted that Nicolò is teasing him, laughing with him, and Nicolò kisses him again and undoes another clasp. Then his fingers brush against the sash wound around Yusuf’s waist, and Yusuf remembers the small but sharp blade tucked into the length of fabric. It’s sheathed of course, but still… “Be careful with that,” he offers when Nicolò glances up, fingers just so brushing the hilt. “It’s very sharp.”

If he did make a grave miscalculation and Nicolò is here for blood, he might be able to avoid a slash from his own blade, but given the honest desire in Nicolò’s changeable eyes, Yusuf doesn’t think that likely. Nicolò heeds his advice and handles the dagger with care, makes sure he grasps the sheath as he works it free of the sash. He hands it to Yusuf hilt-first with a wry smile, and it ends up carelessly tossed onto the side table next to Yusuf’s bed. That is not where he usually keeps it but to put it beneath his pillow right now feels wrong in a way he cannot quite put into words.

Before he can turn back around, Nicolò’s arms are wrapped around him from behind, long fingers playing with the knot on the cord holding the sash in place.

“I was wondering if that dagger was ceremonial,” he murmurs into Yusuf’s ear, breath hot against his skin. “Personal defense?”

“Yes,” Yusuf sighs, leaning back into Nicolò’s arms. “The guards are not everywhere. It pays to be prepared.”

“It does,” Nicolò agrees and tugs the knot open. “It feels strange to go unarmed.” He allows cord and sash to fall around Yusuf’s feet, and undoes the final hook holding his outer robe closed. “How long does it take you to dress in the morning?”

“Not as long as it once did,” Yusuf grins, enjoying the way Nicolò’s fingers are now running up and down his chest over the fabric of his tunic. “Certainly not as long as it is taking you to undress me, Nicolò.”

An amused huff behind him, and Nicolò steps back just enough to let him turn back around. Yusuf mourns the warm strength of him at his back, but the sight of him makes up for the loss. “Patience is a virtue,” Nicolò tells him with a little smile, then reaches up and pushes Yusuf’s robe off his shoulders. It pools on the floor around him, and Nicolò’s hands tug his tunic free of the narrower sash wound around his waist, the one Yusuf uses in place of an actual belt. He prefers the softness of fabric, thank you very much. “I will let you undress me at any speed you wish to, once I am done unwrapping you.”

Yusuf laughs and spreads his arms wide. “Unwrap me then, please, Nicolò. I yearn for your touch.”

Nicolò’s expression softens at that, and he pushes both hands beneath Yusuf’s tunic. Yusuf trembles just from the warm press of his palms against Yusuf’s ribs, his back. Nicolò kisses him again, a slow press of his lips against Yusuf’s, a teasing slide of tongue against tongue. “How do I undo your turban then?” he asks, lips still brushing Yusuf’s. “Show me.”

Yusuf swallows and reaches up to free the pin at the front first. It is long and sharp and will double as a weapon in a pinch, but Yusuf tosses it onto his bedside table without another thought. Then he takes Nicolò’s hand and guides it to the back, where the fabric is tucked in tightly enough to survive a day of court. “There,” he whispers, and Nicolò brushes their mouths together again and again as he tugs the fabric free. It unravels once the tension is released, and Yusuf blindly helps Nicolò push it up and off his head. Nicolò’s fingers push into the mess of Yusuf’s long curls and rub at his scalp, and Yusuf sighs and melts a little against him just because it feels so damn good. He makes a sound that could probably be a whine when Nicolò pulls back, but then his tunic is tugged up and off and yes, that’s a good reason to stop kissing. Especially because Nicolò’s hands are back on Yusuf’s skin immediately, warm and sure in their touch. Nicolò kisses him again, just a chaste brush of lips against lips this time, then steps back just a little and very clearly looks him up and down. Yusuf smirks at him.

“Meet expectations?” he teases, and Nicolò laughs and nods.

“Exceed them,” he corrects, then holds out his hands to the sides, offers access to his clothes. “You’ve been very patient for me, my Prince.”

 _My Prince_ resonates within Yusuf. It feels like an endearment, warm and gently teasing and something he wants to hear again and again.

“I have been promised a good reward,” Yusuf reminds him, stepping over the wreck of his clothes to get his hands on Nicolò. It is a lot easier to undress him, once Yusuf has worked the belt free of its buckle. He takes the opportunity to tug the strip of leather binding Nicolò’s hair free along with his tunic, and Nicolò emerges from the fabric with his hair just a little tousled and brushing his shoulders, smiling at Yusuf with that fire still in his eyes.

“Are we making a mess of each other then?”

Yusuf laughs. “I find that is how good sex works, yes,” he tells Nicolò, who flushes prettily but does grin back, too. _Perfect_ , Yusuf thinks.

There is no way to take off boots that is not slightly ridiculous, so by mutual agreement they take care of that themselves, and then Yusuf takes Nicolò’s hands and walks backwards blindly, pulling Nicolò with him until his legs hit his bed. Nicolò follows, clearly happy to end up on top of Yusuf if the way he settles between Yusuf’s legs and goes right back to kissing him is any indication. Yusuf, for the record, is more than happy with this, too. He’s even happier when Nicolò goes back to touching him and settles into a slow rocking against him, giving him a little pressure and friction against his hard cock. He moans into Nicolò’s mouth and is rewarded by a full-body shiver through that strong body pressing him into his bed. He’s touching, too, stroking his fingers through Nicolò’s soft hair as he promised himself he would, stroking his back, his sides, feeling silken skin over strong muscle.

There are scars over Nicolò’s back, and Yusuf can feel him stiffen for a heartbeat when Yusuf’s fingers find the first. He relaxes again when Yusuf doesn’t say anything, doesn’t do anything but stroke his fingers along the raised line before running them down further along Nicolò’s spine. Yusuf would have to look to be certain, but he thinks they might be lash marks and he really wants to know what might cause anybody to take a whip to this man… but asking would certainly kill the mood, and they have known each other less than a full day. That kind of question is one you ask a friend, not a near-stranger, never mind him being in your bed. Never mind his kiss feeling familiar already.

“Like this?” Nicolò asks against his ear, in between sucking kisses along the line of his throat. He rocks his hips harder in emphasis, and Yusuf moans and nods.

“Inside me,” he adds, then “if you want to,” because he doesn’t _know_ if Nicolò’s people even do that… but Nicolò moans and rocks down hard again, licks down to Yusuf’s collarbone to nibble along the skin there and Yusuf moans for him and clings to him and lets Nicolò take him apart with his clever fingers and his beautiful mouth. He hasn’t had many lovers who were so willing to take the lead, ignore what he was born as and treat him as just a man in bed with them, and Nicolò’s touch holds no hesitation. His mouth is hot and wet on Yusuf’s chest and belly, and his hands don’t pause before they slide lower and stroke beneath the waistband of his pants.

“Take them off,” Yusuf whispers, and Nicolò gives him another great view of his body when he sits up to divest Yusuf of his pants and smallclothes. Yusuf stretches languidly beneath his gaze and smiles when Nicolò licks his lips. “Get naked, Nicolò.”

“So demanding, my Prince,” Nicolò replies, but there’s a laugh lurking in his voice and he obeys anyway, struggling out of his hose and smallclothes. It’s Yusuf’s turn to lick his lips, because damn, the man is beautiful all over. Yusuf wants to get his mouth on that pretty, pretty dick, but he also wants it inside him sooner rather than later. _Maybe tomorrow morning._

“Now come back,” he tries, and Nicolò snorts at him but complies, stretching himself out atop Yusuf again. Yusuf kisses him, addicted to the taste of him and the way he licks into Yusuf’s mouth as if they’ve been doing this for months. He digs his fingers into the muscle of Nicolò’s back and rocks up into him just to hear him moan, then takes a firm hold of that glorious hair and pulls just a little. Nicolò moans again, going a little slack against Yusuf for a moment. Yusuf kisses the mark on his cheek and commits the reaction to memory. “There’s a tin in the drawer,” he murmurs against Nicolò’s skin. “Can you reach?”

“If you let go of my hair,” Nicolò says, then sighs when Yusuf does just that. He stretches to reach the drawer, which makes his back muscles flex beautifully under Yusuf’s hand and gives him the opportunity to kiss along Nicolò’s ribs, tasting the slightly salty skin there. Nicolò hisses a curse and shivers but does come back with the tin Yusuf requested in one hand.

Nicolò kisses him as he works him open, slow and sure and insistent. He pauses every time Yusuf’s breath hitches, teasing him deliberately. The first moan against Nicolò’s mouth earns him the slow drag out and hard push in that makes his toes curl and his cock jump against his belly, and Yusuf reaches down and teases himself with too-dry fingers. Nicolò nips his lip. “Bring your fingers up here for a moment.”

His mouth is indecently skillful around Yusuf’s fingers, and he groans at the thought of how that might feel around his cock. Nicolò smirks around his fingers. “If you play your cards right, maybe,” he whispers, giving one last lick to Yusuf’s wet fingers. “I’m an early riser, though.”

Yusuf isn't if he can help it, but he might make an exception for Nicolò. He doesn’t dare do more than tease his wet fingers along his cock, because Nicolò’s fingers are so damn good inside him it might be over far too soon if he strokes himself the way he wants to. “Please, Nicolò,” he whispers, body clenching hungrily.

“I like how you say please,” Nicolò tells him, pulling slick fingers free to spread more of the melting substance over his own cock. He groans and lets his head fall forward to rest against Yusuf’s shoulder, trembling all over at his own touch.

Given how empty he feels, Yusuf has no qualms about using that new knowledge immediately. “ _Please_ , Nicolò,” he breathes, spreading his legs wider in invitation. “Please, I want you. I need you inside me.”

“Dirty cheat,” Nicolò growls against his skin, but he’s moving so Yusuf stops playing dirty. He then proceeds to forget words exist, because Nicolò is pressing into him, just as slow and deliberate as he fingered him open. He thinks he might moan, might even manage Nicolò’s name, but certainly no words. It’s been too long since he had this, had someone who read his body so well, filled him so perfectly.

“Fuck, Yusuf,” Nicolò gasps out against his neck, and his name on Nicolò’s lips has him clench around the thick length stretching him open, whining as he does. Nicolò kisses his throat, open-mouthed and wet, and then he’s pushing up onto his elbows to peer down at Yusuf from behind his messy hair. He’s beautiful, and Yusuf is lost.

“Move,” he whispers, licks lips that feel too dry. “Please.”

“Cheat,” Nicolò repeats, a hint of amusement in the rough drag of his voice. Yusuf pulls him back into a kiss by his hair, and then Nicolò finds some mercy in his soul and finally moves, and Yusuf’s brain gives up.

He gets lost in the wet drag-slide of Nicolò’s cock inside him, the warm weight of him keeping Yusuf pinned to the bed, the way his kisses have gone a little desperate. Nicolò’s muscles flex beneath his skin where Yusuf is clinging to him, and the soft noises he makes between kisses are the best music he’s ever heard.

He never wants this to end.

Of course, eventually, it has to. Yusuf has no idea how much time has passed; just knows he’s slick with sweat and Nicolò is panting against his throat when his thrusts start to come harder. Yusuf wraps both legs around him and holds on, his cock rubbing deliciously against his belly and Nicolò’s, and he comes just like that, wrapped around Nicolò and speared on his cock. It feels better than it has any right to, and the low, desperate _“Yusuf!”_ Nicolò sobs out against his neck before he stiffens and trembles through his own orgasm is almost, almost enough to bring tears to Yusuf’s eyes.

Nicolò eventually stirs and shifts a little, and they both groan when he slips out of Yusuf’s body. “We should clean up a little,” he murmurs, and Yusuf makes a noise he hopes signals agreement and tightens his arms around Nicolò. He shifts them both to their sides and sits up.

“I’ll go find a bit of water.”

Nicolò hums and kisses Yusuf’s throat, nuzzles his beard and then kisses him properly, slow and sweet. “Be quick about it, my Prince.”

Yusuf laughs and nods, and he is lucky because there is more than enough water waiting for him in the private bath. When he returns to his bedroom, it is to the sight of Nicolò stretched out over his bed like a lazy housecat, one arm flung out as if he’s reaching for Yusuf.

Ocean eyes open when Yusuf climbs back into bed, and then Nicolò steals the damp fabric Yusuf brought and nudges him onto his back, cleaning him up with gentle hands. Yusuf sighs. “That’s it, I’m keeping you.”

It’s said in a mixture of jest and honest desire, and Yusuf curses himself as soon as the words leave his mouth. Nicolò’s gaze flicks up to meet his gaze, and he smiles wryly.

“Oh? And what makes you think I’m the kind of man who can be kept then, my Prince?”

The teasing tone is a relief, because it means Nicolò probably didn’t pick up on how much Yusuf meant it just now. He lets himself relax again and tease back. “I can say ‘please’ very nicely in several languages.”

“Very tempting, my Prince.” Nicolò wipes himself down far quicker and rougher than he cleaned Yusuf, then throws the rag aside and curls himself against Yusuf’s side. “You can keep me for tonight. If you don’t snore.”

“I’ve had no complaints,” Yusuf assures him, and treasures the soft laugh that is Nicolò’s answer. He falls asleep with the Genovese man cradled in his arms, his nose buried in Nicolò’s hair.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friendships begin to bloom, Prince Stephen is not well-liked, and Yusuf and Nicolò spiral closer to each other.

Sebastien does the smart thing and does not ask Nicolò where he spent the night when they finally meet over breakfast. He must know Nicolò didn’t sleep in his assigned guest room because that is part of his job, but Nicolò took great care in making sure nobody else will notice. The fewer people know where he spent the night, the better. (Well, aside from the guards he knows must have seen him leave the family’s wing of the palace, but they know what is and isn't worth reporting.)

The spy then proves his intelligence further by not saying a word until Nicolò has had a cup of strong tea and broken his fast. “There is to be an outing today,” he finally informs Nicolò, voice neutral. “A hawking expedition, apparently.”

“Tunisia is known for excellent hawks,” Nicolò muses. His gaze drifts past Sebastien and out to the blue sky overhead. “It would be prudent to be a part of this outing, I take it?”

“Yes,” Sebastien agrees. “Several of the most important guests have already said they will be there, and Prince Yusuf himself is apparently joining us, too.”

There’s just a hint of a grin on his face, and Nicolò glares at him. “Keep it down,” he hisses. “I will throw you overboard once we sail back, Booker.”

“You need me too much to do that,” Sebastien waves the threat away and sips his own tea. “And I didn’t _say_ anything.”

Nicolò growls. “Why do I like you again?”

“Because I still have the best intel,” Sebastien informs him, and the hint has spread into a true grin by now. “Such as that your new friends will be joining us, as well. The Goddess-Queen Andromache and her Queen Consort, as well as Queen Nile. Possibly also Prince Consort Lykon.”

 _Well_ , Nicolò thinks. _A day spent atop a horse, watching hawks and chatting with new friends. The day could certainly be worse_.

It turns out the day can actually be worse. Of course, it doesn’t start that way. The horses they are given are beautiful, and Nicolò remembers Tunisia isn't just known for its hawks. Prince Yusuf looks stunning in riding gear, his long coat split in front and back to allow him to sit comfortably atop his horse. It’s still obviously expensive, embroidery in silver against the blue fabric at collar and wrists, and he has a wickedly curved sword strapped to his side. Nicolò feels the weight of his own, straight blade at his hip and wonders how differently the curved one would be to wield.

Queen Nile is indeed riding with them, as are Queen Andromache and Queen Consort Quỳnh, which makes for great company. Nicolò had hoped they might be joined by Prince Yusuf for a while and told himself it was because he wanted to see how the man interacts with people whom he obviously considers friends. However, the Prince does not get a chance to join any group besides _Crown_ Prince Stephen and the whole entourage the man felt it necessary to bring. They form a barrier between him and the rest of their party during the ride towards the hunting grounds, and as they watch the hawks fly Prince Stephen is constantly fluttering around Prince Yusuf, demanding his entire attention. His entourage, of course, runs interference there, too. Nicolò spends the time in the company of Queens Nile and Andromache, and Queen Consort Quỳnh. They become less formal with each other over the hours, something that might be friendship beginning to grow. Still, by the time they mount their horses again for the ride back, Nicolò is more than irritated by the situation. He doesn’t quite know why (that’s a lie, his mind whispers. Nicolò ignores it), but he is not the only one who isn't happy with it.

“I do not like it,” Andromache says to his left, and Nicolò raises an eyebrow as he glances at her. She snorts and gestures. “That is not only bad manners, but also downright rude. We are all guests; Yusuf should have the opportunity to ride with everyone and strengthen alliances.”

“ _He_ isn't aiming for an alliance,” Nile offers from Nicolò’s other side, her voice soft but firm. Nicolò glances at her, too, and notices the hard clench of her jaw. “You probably can’t see it from your angle, Your Majesty. He keeps touching Prince Yusuf. It is beyond inappropriate, for all that he apparently thinks them to be of a station.”

“Just Andromache, damnit,” is the reply and Nicolò smiles for the disgruntled tone but something in his chest feels strangely tight now. He sits up a little straighter in the saddle and narrows his eyes, trusting his horse to keep to her path, and true enough – that’s Prince Stephen’s hand, reaching out to touch Prince Yusuf’s thigh with a familiarity that is… Nicolò grits his teeth and reminds himself he has no right to be possessive over the Prince after a single night in his bed.

Even if Prince Yusuf’s words about keeping him were more than just said in jest, he is in no position to actually become anything but a friend to the Prince. The fact that he is the third son and fifth child aside, he is a _son_. If only half the rumors he heard about the Prince’s brother are true, he will not return and have children that are eligible to continue the royal line, and that is not something Nicolò could give Prince Yusuf, either. It is a nice daydream, nothing more… but still, the sheer gall of Prince Stephen infuriates Nicolò in a way that tells him he is in trouble. Nicolò is not usually possessive of his friends’ time and affection.

“Andromache,” he says slowly, both to distract himself from the way his thoughts have gone and because the idea is just forming in his mind. “Those courtiers do not seem terribly capable in the saddle. How rude would it be if we just… interfered a little?”

“Terribly rude,” Andromache says immediately, but she is also grinning widely. “I like the way you think, Nicolò.”

Nicolò grins back and urges his horse forward. She’s agile and brave, obviously bored with the slow pace. She falls into a canter immediately when Nicolò nudges her, and they slide in between the bored courtiers Prince Stephen brought with ease. Nicolò, who was trained to ride into enemy lines and cut men off their horses with precision strikes of a sword, almost laughs at the hasty way they make room for him. Andromache slips through right after him. “Yusuf!” she calls, her voice carrying easily. “Do not tell me you have gotten lazy! My grandmother could keep this pace!”

Prince Yusuf turns to look over his shoulder, and Nicolò hopes he doesn’t imagine the way his eyes light up when he spots them much closer than before. His horse steps sideways, creating more distance between him and Prince Stephen, and Nicolò urges his mare forward between them. He ignores the Englishman entirely. “She is correct,” he offers with a shrug. “Would you care for a little race, my Prince?”

It feels incredibly daring to use those words to address him, but it pays off. Prince Yusuf’s eyes laugh, even as the man himself pretends to consider. “I would not wish to crush the competition,” he muses. Andromache, now on his other side, laughs and spurs her horse on, and then they’re flying along the road. There’s more laughter and fast hoofbeats following them, and when Nicolò chances a glance over his shoulder, Quỳnh and Nile have joined their little race.

Nicolò grins and bends low in the saddle. He has a Prince to beat.

Sebastien doesn’t keep quiet that afternoon as they remove the dust and sweat of a day spent on horseback. “You don’t usually interfere the way you did today,” is what he chooses as his opening volley. Nicolò snorts and stretches out in the warm water, enamored with the palace’s bathhouses already. “I mean it,” the spy continues. “That was your idea, don’t think I didn’t notice. Queen Andromache might have jumped on it, but you were the one who brought it up.”

Nicolò opens his eyes long enough to glare at Sebastien. “I also don’t usually ignore someone feeling so obviously uncomfortable with another’s advances,” he shoots back. It’s Sebastien’s turn to snort.

“And the fact that you came to our rooms incredibly early this morning, looking very satisfied, has nothing to do with this? Should I even ask which bed you were in?”

Nicolò sits up straight and claps his hand over Sebastien’s mouth. It’s not quite a gentle hold, and the spy winces. “We’re in _public_ ,” Nicolò hisses, “and there are more than enough ears around who understand Ligurian. Please do stop spreading rumors, _Booker_.”

Sebastien glares and rubs his chin when Nicolò releases him. “You’re being prickly,” he mutters. “Fine, I won’t name anyone. Just please tell me it wasn’t that bastard.”

Nicolò splashes him just for that, then leaves the bath while Sebastien is still spluttering. He gets dressed in silence, ignoring Sebastien’s “please stop being ridiculous,” in favor of squeezing excess water out of his hair.

“For the record,” he states just as he’s about to leave, “you don’t get a say in who I spend my nights with, and I have better taste than that.”

By the time he reaches their rooms, Nicolò already regrets blowing up the way he did… but really, this isn't home where Nicolò gets to not give a shit about the rumors flying around because he will be at sea again soon, anyway. Rumors that reach the right (or wrong) ears here might end up biting him later or damage his father’s business. He can’t afford to be mentioned as a potential dalliance of either Yusuf or Prince Stephen, and he doesn’t care about the latter’s good name (not that there is much of a good name there), but he certainly has started to care about the former’s.

Nicolò stares at the beautiful mosaic depicting a stylized sun on his bedroom floor and curses.

He’s in trouble indeed.

Nicolò’s apology to Sebastien is to make sure the man is seated next to the lady-in-waiting he’d noticed kept watching him yesterday. Sebastien meets his gaze after a while and raises his goblet with a wry smile, and Nicolò relaxes.

Apology accepted, and one thing less to worry about.

He is seated with guests from Castille tonight and is rather certain it’s not a coincidence Prince Stephen is seated with Andromache and Quỳnh. Going by the wide, merciless grin on Andromache’s face, and the vicious little smile on Quỳnh’s, they are taking great joy in making sure the man is not enjoying this meal.

“The little weasel,” Lady Elvira of Léon sniffs. “I danced with him once and regretted it almost before I stepped onto the floor with him. Dreadful character.”

“I agree,” Nicolò tells her, thinking of the way the man kept touching Prince Yusuf. “However, I do believe he is paying for his behavior tonight.”

Lady Elvira hides her laugh behind her hand, but her eyes gleam. “Indeed,” she agrees. “There are not many who will share a table with him… he made himself a nuisance last year as well, though then it was Prince Jafar who held the dubious honor of his attention.”

This is the first time Nicolò heard the other Prince’s name mentioned at all since arriving, and he can’t help but inquire further. Booker would be proud of him.

“I never had the honor of meeting Prince Jafar,” he says carefully. “I was informed he was… not a welcome topic anymore.”

Lady Elvira sobers and sips her goblet. “I have heard rumors only,” she tells him, her voice quieter now. “I do know he left court for the east, soon after last year’s Birthday celebration. Rumor has it he threw his lot in with a Princess and someone who might be a Prince or might be a common thief, nobody is entirely sure. The Sultana was… not amused to hear of this.”

Nicolò glances to where the Sultana is seated. She is in deep conversation with the woman to her left, but Prince Yusuf isn't. He is, in fact, looking straight at Nicolò. It feels strangely good to know he’s being watched by the man. “I will make certain I do not mention his name within her hearing then,” he says, and Lady Elvira nods.

“That might be a good decision, yes.”

Dinner is, once again, followed by dancing. Even Andromache agreed to help, and so they run interference in Prince Stephen’s attempts to get close to Prince Yusuf once more. Andromache, nominally of higher station and a known friend and ally of the Sultana, has the standing to ask Prince Yusuf for a dance first, and they do not allow either Prince Stephen or Lord Keane to cut in, after.

Quỳnh takes Prince Yusuf’s hand from her wife, demanding her turn with sweet smiles. She is a good fit for Yusuf as well, Nicolò notices – a skilled dancer who easily follows the complicated steps of the dance. She is laughing throughout, which makes him suspect the Prince is showing off on purpose.

Nicolò makes certain he and the Lady Elvira come to a halt next to where Prince Yusuf and Quỳnh are. He bows over her hand and then Quỳnh exclaims over Elvira’s uniquely beautiful lace shawl and leads her away, and Nicolò offers a bow to Prince Yusuf. “May I have this dance, my Prince?”

It warms him all the way through when Prince Yusuf doesn’t even hesitate. The Prince’s hold is just as proper as it was the night before, but Nicolò thinks he’s holding him a little tighter, a little closer than they started out yesterday as they spin into the dance.

“I feel there is a plot afoot,” Prince Yusuf says quietly, just loud enough for Nicolò to hear him over the music. Nicolò glances up and can feel his mouth curl into a smile.

“There are always plots afoot in any court,” he teases gently, allows Prince Yusuf to spin him into a turn that sees him pressed tightly against the man for a moment. “You should know that my Prince.”

Prince Yusuf laughs, though he keeps it soft and quickly smothered. “I appreciate this particular one.”

They don’t speak aside from that, and Nicolò lets himself enjoy the dance, the knowledge of how Yusuf’s body feels beneath his layers of silk. A tiny part of him wonders if Yusuf can still feel him today, and the thought alone is enough to make him feel warm and hungry. His fingers tighten a little where they’re resting on the Prince’s shoulder, and Yusuf glances down at him with a little smile and an echo of last night’s fire in his eyes. Nicolò tilts his head a little, the tiniest of nods, and feels his heart flutter when Yusuf echoes it.

The dance ends, and Prince Yusuf accepts Nile’s hand from Lykon – they are matched beautifully today, Yusuf still wearing blue and silver, albeit a richer robe fit for court now. Nile is resplendent in her blue dress and lapis lazuli and silver jewelry. Nicolò takes Lykon’s offered hand – he’s leading this time, apparently – and tells the other man, “you are one lucky man, Prince Lykon.”

“I am aware, Lord Nicolò,” Lykon answers dryly, “and please, the people who make my wife laugh until she cries call me by name, not by title.”

“I am Nico to my friends,” Nicolò tells him, and they spend the rest of the dance murmuring scathing critique about Prince Stephen’s form. By the end of this dance, Nicolò is certain he has found a good friend in Lykon.

“We need to keep you,” Andromache tells him when he takes her hand and leads her onto the floor. Her dress is slitted up the sides and she’s wearing long pants beneath, and Nicolò is rather certain she would be able to fight in it. He wonders if this is her usual attire – he didn’t pay that much attention to her dress yesterday, far too caught up in her personality and sheer presence – or if she expected trouble tonight. “You have good ideas.”

“I am honored, Your Majesty,” Nicolò teases. Andromache huffs at him, but her eyes are amused, and she allows him to spin her into a twirl.

“Cheeky,” she accuses once she’s facing him again. “I like you, Nicolò di Genova.”

“I think I might like you too, Andromache of the Steppes,” Nicolò admits. “Mostly because I do like your wife, and she seems to be a woman of good tastes.”

Andromache actually laughs this time, and Nicolò considers it a personal victory.

Nicolò doesn’t get a chance for another dance with Prince Yusuf because most of the other guests seem to have caught on to their little ploy and everyone is standing ready to interfere whenever Prince Stephen appears to try and approach Prince Yusuf. It means he is not a sweat-drenched, exhausted mess once the festivities wind down for the night, but it also means he isn't entirely sure they agreed to the same thing during their dance.

He solves the problem by waiting at the same archway as yesterday evening and avoids other guests who are leaving towards the guest wing by simply stepping out into the garden and leaning back against the palace. The view is beautiful, and the cool night air feels good on his warm face and hands. Nicolò watches the candles flicker in their lamps and listens to guests leave the feast, their footsteps passing behind him as voices echo along the corridor.

A new set of footsteps approaches, then pauses on the inside of the arch. Nicolò perks up, and sure enough there’s a low murmur of his name, almost a question. “I’m out here,” he murmurs back, and then Prince Yusuf steps out into the garden. His smile when he spots Nicolò is wide and beautiful and Nicolò’s traitorous heart clenches, once, hard.

“I had hoped we had understood each other right,” Prince Yusuf says, and holds out a hand. Nicolò takes it because it would be physically impossible to resist. He cannot have Prince Yusuf, that is nothing but a pretty dream, but he can have this. He can have Yusuf, the man who is not the Prince. Two, maybe three more nights before they set sail again, and he will make the most of them.

“Your bed is far more comfortable than the one in my guest room,” he offers, and Yusuf laughs and tugs him close, tucks his hand into the crook of his elbow again as he did yesterday.

“I like my bed with you in it,” he agrees as he leads Nicolò out into the garden. “I would very much enjoy having you in it again tonight.”

“Then have me in it,” Nicolò says, fully aware of the dual meaning of his words. Yusuf growls at him and quickens his steps, and Nicolò smirks and allows himself to be hurried along. In truth, he is no less eager.

Yusuf’s rooms are familiar enough now to Nicolò that he feels comfortable in walking into Yusuf’s bedroom while the Prince locks the door. He turns up the lamp and stokes the fire a little higher, because the night air has a bite to it that was absent yesterday, and he has plans that include being naked.

By the time Yusuf walks into the room, Nicolò is spread out on his bed, still dressed in his long tunic and smallclothes but divested of everything else. The way Yusuf pauses to stare has him smile and stretch lazily. “You did say you liked your bed with me in it,” he murmurs, feeling bold and _wanted_ with Yusuf’s heated gaze on him. It’s not something he’s familiar with, but it feels good. “Was this what you had in mind?”

“Almost,” Yusuf says, and his voice has gone low and gravelly. It sends a shiver up Nicolò’s spine. “But I do believe we can get there.”

The dagger tucked into his sash goes onto the bedside table again, then Yusuf’s fingers go to the sash tied around his waist. Knots, hooks, buttons… he undoes them without looking away from Nicolò once, letting his clothes drop where they will fall. It’s intoxicating, and Nicolò bites his lower lip in anticipation.

The last bit of fabric to be removed is the turban, and when Yusuf crawls up onto the bed stark naked Nicolò takes the opportunity to sink both hands into the mess of curls framing Yusuf’s face, tugging gently on them in the way that made Yusuf groan yesterday. It does the trick today, too, and then Yusuf is kissing him. Nicolò moans and sinks back into the sheets, spreads his legs wide to let Yusuf’s weight settle between. It feels good to be covered by him, and Nicolò is in the mood to be had. Clearly, Yusuf is in the mood to have him.

“You are wearing far too many clothes,” Yusuf murmurs against his mouth, tugging on Nicolò’s tunic to emphasize. His hand slides up Nicolò’s leg and beneath the tunic. “Get rid of this before I cut it off you.”

“I must protest that,” Nicolò manages, even as the idea has his heart quicken its rhythm and his cock twitch. “I do need clothing to return to my rooms tomorrow morning.”

“You do?” Yusuf asks, raising an eyebrow. He sits up and makes as if to reach for the blade on his bedside table. “I _could_ just keep you in my bed if you don’t have anything to wear tomorrow? Nicolò, that is not an incentive to stop me from cutting your tunic to shreds.”

Nicolò shivers – and when did he start to trust this man so much, that he’d allow him to trace a blade along his skin and cut his clothes off? – and sits up to shed his tunic. “I would have to steal your clothes,” he says, “and that would just be a scandal all around. We should avoid one of those, they are terribly time-consuming.”

Yusuf crawls up between Nicolò’s legs again and kisses his jaw, then trails his lips down Nicolò’s throat. His beard rasps against Nicolò’s skin, sending shivers down his spine. “You are right,” he purrs. “We should avoid scandals.” More wet kisses along his clavicle, then a teasing nip to the skin. “I can spend all that free time with you like this instead.”

His mouth closes over a nipple, licks and sucks. Fingers play with the other nub, then switch places. Nicolò moans, then gasps out a curse when Yusuf rubs his bearded cheek against the wet nub. He has to concentrate to translate the Arabic murmured against his skin.

“I want to leave my mark all over you,” Yusuf is telling him between kisses, his voice low and rough. “I want you to feel me tomorrow, as I felt you all day today. I kept thinking about you, Nico… how well you pleasured me last night, how badly I wanted you in my bed again.”

Nicolò groans and arches up into Yusuf at the rasp of beard against the tender skin of his belly. “Do it,” he encourages. “Mark me, Yusuf.”

Heated dark eyes meet his. Yusuf kisses his belly, then nudges his legs wider apart to make room for his shoulders. Nicolò’s breath nearly catches in his throat at the sight alone, and his smallclothes are far too restraining by now. He eagerly raises his hips when Yusuf reaches for the fabric, and then he’s naked, spread out for his lover (please, yes, _his lover_ ). Yusuf strokes his hands up Nicolò’s legs. “Where would you like your mark then?” he purrs. “Your hip? Or maybe your belly? Or I could mark up one of your pretty thighs, so you’ll feel it all day tomorrow when the fabric rubs against it.”

Nicolò’s cock jumps at the idea, and Yusuf’s grin is slow and wide. “Oh, I like your choice,” he purrs. Nicolò holds his breath as Yusuf lowers his head to his thigh, then shivers when Yusuf kisses his way down from his hip towards the soft, tender inside. Soft lips, warm breath… a wet tongue. Yusuf obviously enjoys teasing Nicolò, and he can’t know how much Nicolò loves this slow build, can’t know how badly he missed it in the short encounters life at sea offered over the past years. Nicolò moans his appreciation when Yusuf’s teeth dig in just a little, when he sucks gently and then harder, drawing blood to the surface. The spot throbs and feels hot and tender even after he pulls his mouth away, and Nicolò is greedy. “More,” he moans. “Please, Yusuf.”

The man between his legs groans, presses a kiss to the tender mark. His mouth shifts on Nicolò’s skin, then his teeth dig in again, harder this time. Nicolò moans, shivers, clings to the sheets as Yusuf sucks a second, then a third mark into the skin of his inner thigh. He knows he will feel them tomorrow, will think of this moment – and then Yusuf looks up at him and smirks. He kisses the spot on Nicolò’s hip where his belt sits, holding Nicolò’s gaze. There’s a question in his eyes, and Nicolò nods. “Yes,” he breathes. “Yes, Yusuf.”

Teeth, sharp and still so, so gentle. Wet suction, a tongue rubbing over captured flesh. Yusuf takes his time with this mark, doesn’t relent until it’s a deep, dark blemish on Nicolò’s pale hip, throbbing in time with his rapid heart. He will feel that one for longer than just a day. “There we are,” Yusuf whispers, and his voice is so rough, so full of need. Nicolò feels too hot, too sensitive. He wants, just as much as Yusuf.

“Come up here,” he holds out his hands and Yusuf takes them, crawls up Nicolò’s body and kisses him. Nicolò wraps both legs around his hips, moans into their kiss at the pressure against the fresh marks on his thigh.

“Nico,” Yusuf breathes against his mouth, and Nicolò kisses him and cups his face with both hands, strokes his shoulders and down that lovely, broad back. He desperately wants to pitch himself against Yusuf, cross blades with him in a friendly match – Yusuf dances so well, he just knows the man has to be beautiful with a blade in his hand. His nails dig in just a little, and Yusuf groans and snatches his wrists, pins them above Nicolò’s head. Nicolò moans and arches up into Yusuf.

“That’s cheating,” he protests weakly. Yusuf laughs against his throat.

“No, it’s not,” he counters. “You are cheating, you beautiful creature. I had plans for you, my darling.”

Nicolò breathes deeply to try and calm himself, allows Yusuf to press him into the bed. His weight feels comfortable atop Nicolò, and he remembers Yusuf’s happy little sigh when Nicolò did the same to him last night. “I could be good and let you play,” he murmurs, “but I think I like ruining your plans if this is the result.”

Yusuf laughs at that, warm and fond, and squeezes the wrists he’s still holding. His hands stroke down Nicolò’s arms, down his side to cup his hip. “Plans are made to be ruined.” A soft kiss, Yusuf sucking on Nicolò’s lower lip. “And I have so many things I want to do with you, Nico.”

Nicolò keeps his hands where they are, loves the gleam in Yusuf’s eyes. “Tell me,” he whispers, squeezes the leg still wrapped around Yusuf’s waist. “I want to hear all your thoughts, all your fantasies.”

Yusuf makes a small, hungry noise in the back of his throat. “I would have you like this,” he murmurs, his voice rough again. His hands stroke back up Nicolò’s arms as he rocks slowly into Nicolò. Their erections rub against each other, and Nicolò moans. “Just with a soft rope around your wrists, keeping your hands up there. I would kiss every part of you until you begged for more, my darling.” His mouth is hot on Nicolò’s throat, and Nicolò moans for the words, the kisses, the slow, gentle rhythm of their hips. “I would take you into my mouth, listen to you moan as I sucked on you… maybe I would let you come like that, or maybe I would open you up with my mouth still wrapped around you. You would moan so beautifully for me, Nico.”

Nicolò groans, squeezes Yusuf’s hips with his legs. “I would,” he agrees, and he can almost feel Yusuf’s mouth on him, feel his long fingers slide into Nicolò’s body. Yusuf nips at his throat, moves his hips faster.

“Or we might sit on the balcony,” he whispers into Nicolò’s ear, his breath hot against Nicolò’s skin. “I might tease you until you bend me over the balustrade, pin me down as you take me… maybe you would have me naked, or maybe you would just open your pants, pull mine down just far enough to reach. I would feel you seep out of me until I could bathe, my Nico…”

Nicolò hisses a curse and buries his fingers in Yusuf’s curls, drags his head up for a kiss. “Your words,” he gasps in between kisses. “ _Yusuf_.”

“Yes,” Yusuf agrees. His hands glide down Nicolò’s back, rest warm and heavy on his ass. “Nico. Yes?”

“Yes,” Nicolò agrees, not quite sure what he’s agreeing to but wanting it anyway, wanting it all with Yusuf. His heart is beating so fast in his chest, and he wants so badly. He hasn’t been this lost in a lover in a long time, or maybe ever. Yusuf’s hand strokes lower, fingers slipping between Nicolò’s cheeks, and they’re kissing again, deep, hungry kisses that steal Nicolò’s breath. Yusuf’s finger rubs over his entrance, dry and so good, and Nicolò arches into him and gasps out breathless moans as the need in his body boils over. Warm wetness spreads between them as he clings to Yusuf, and his lover groans deep in his throat. Dark eyes watch him as he comes apart, and Nicolò doesn’t look away. Yusuf slows the rocking of his hips, still so hard against Nicolò’s belly, and he’s sated but he _wants_. Nicolò arches into Yusuf, tightens the legs still wound around his waist. “Take your pleasure in me my Prince,” he murmurs, strokes tangled curls back from Yusuf’s face. “I want it.”

Yusuf shudders so hard above him, Nicolò thinks for a moment he came after all, but then Yusuf is kissing his mouth, his chin, his cheek. “You will have to let me sit up, my Nico,” he whispers between kisses. Nicolò sighs and lets his legs slide off Yusuf’s hips, spreading them wide. He knows the kind of wanton display he must make – drenched in sweat and his own spend, skin red in patches from Yusuf’s beard, marks from his mouth mottled along his inner thigh, prominent on his hip. Yusuf’s low groan tells him his lover appreciates the sight, and Yusuf hurries to lean over to his bedside table and fetch the tin of lubricant. Nicolò watches the creamy substance melt on Yusuf’s fingers, bites his lower lip when those slicked fingers disappear between his legs and rub warm-wet against his entrance. Yusuf looks up at him, one finger resting against the furled muscle. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Nicolò murmurs, shifting his hips a little. His arms are once more stretched out above his head, wrists crossed, but that doesn’t mean he can’t tease. “I like it this way.”

He didn’t know it was possible, but Yusuf’s eyes darken further. The hand resting warm on Nicolò’s thigh grips him a little tighter, Yusuf’s finger pressing harder against his hole. Nicolò’s body, relaxed from his orgasm, accepts him in and Nicolò sighs with the feeling. Yusuf’s gaze flicks from his face to where his finger is pushing into Nicolò’s body, back and forth. He takes his time in working Nicolò’s body open, goes back for more of the creamy lubricant before he pushes three fingers into him, and Nicolò moans a little with the stretch, feels his cock stir against his belly. It’s far too soon for him to get hard again, but he enjoys the low burn of arousal anyway.

Yusuf presses him into the bed again with his weight, licks into his mouth as his cock pushes into Nicolò’s body, slow and careful. Nicolò moans and has to move his hands, stroke Yusuf’s hair and his cheeks and everywhere he can reach as the man rocks into him slowly, so careful with Nicolò’s body. Nicolò wraps his legs around his waist again, pulls him in closer. “Take me,” he murmurs against Yusuf’s mouth.

“ _Nico_ ,” Yusuf groans. His grip tightens where he’s holding onto Nicolò, but he doesn’t protest, doesn’t ask again. Nicolò holds him close with his legs around his waist, his hand cupped around the back of Yusuf’s head and kisses him as he moves, hips thrusting harder and harder. It feels so good, different from when he’s chasing his own pleasure. Nicolò’s own arousal is a lazy, sated thing that could be stoked back to a fire… but he doesn’t want that right now, wants to feel sated and lazy as Yusuf shivers and trembles in his arms.

“Will you come for me, my Prince?” he whispers against Yusuf’s cheek, nuzzling him in a tender counterpoint to Yusuf’s hard thrusts. He clenches his inner muscles, listens to the deep moan. “Mark me once more, deep inside my body?”

“Your _mouth_ , Nicolò,” Yusuf gasps out, and his movements have grown more desperate. “You ruin me.”

“You ruin _me,_ my Prince.” Nicolò tugs gently on sweat-drenched curls. “Ruin me so well, I will remember it all day tomorrow. Remember this, remember you so deep inside me.”

Yusuf groans and kisses him again, sloppy and uncoordinated. His hold on Nicolò tightens to the point it aches _just right_ , and his hips stutter and press deep into Nicolò as he shakes above him. Nicolò moans, arches up, kisses back greedily. He wants this again, he thinks, and again, in any way they can.

He’s in so much trouble.

“Tell me about your family,” Yusuf asks, stretched out on the padded bench in front of the open window, dressed in nothing but a loose robe, Nicolò wrapped in his arms and leaning against his chest. Their nest of blankets is nice and warm, and Yusuf’s arms are a comfortable weight around Nicolò’s chest, and Nicolò looks up at the night sky and speaks.

He tells Yusuf about his brothers, about Federico who is so much like their father, with a hunger for power that drives him. He talks about Marco, who is much closer in age to Nicolò. Marco, who has a talent for languages and is charming where Federico is blunt, but who admires Federico and their father for the ease with which they manipulate people. He talks about Flavia who married for love and defied their father’s wishes, and whom he has not seen since. Her letters arrive to a port Nicolò visits regularly, and he believes she is well, but he misses her. He talks about Isabella, his brilliant sister who chafes at the restrictions their father put on her. “I would have brought her if he’d allowed it,” Nicolò says quietly. “She is much more skilled at navigating a court than I am.”

“You are doing well,” Yusuf offers. His fingers play with Nicolò’s, almost absently. “She must truly be a marvel.”

Nicolò chuckles and turns his hand, presses it palm to palm with Yusuf’s. Their hands are of a size. “I’m out of practice,” he admits. “I spent a lot of time at sea, and conversation aboard a ship is usually much more straight-forward than the polite chattering of court gatherings.”

Yusuf’s fingers curl over the back of Nicolò’s hand. The Prince rests their joined hands on Nicolò’s chest. “I am curious about you… you are the youngest child, then?”

“I am the youngest _legitimate_ child,” Nicolò corrects, then winces. It’s an open secret in Genoa, and probably beyond its borders as well, but it isn't something to be mentioned if it can be helped. Yusuf, however, merely snorts.

“I am fortunate that my parents wed for love.” His voice is calm and quiet, and maybe a little wistful. “My father was true to my mother, and she to him… but I know that is not the case in many marriages. You do not bear your father’s shame, Nico.”

Nicolò really likes hearing his name shortened on Yusuf’s tongue. He snuggles back further, relaxing again. “I’m the third son, and the fifth child. I knew early on I was meant either for the clergy or the military… a career that would, one day, put me in a position to help my family reach for more power. My father is ambitious, it is why Flavia’s marriage upset him so much… her husband and his family offer no advantages he might use. It was why I initially opted for the clergy, when presented with the choice.”

Yusuf makes an amused sound. “You were far too skilled in my bed to have spent your years in the Roman church,” and his free hand is stroking down Nicolò’s side, teasing at the edges of his robe. Nicolò sucks in a breath and shivers.

“I lasted for maybe a year as a novice before I practically ran for the military. A life devoted to God may appeal to some, but I found it wholly unsuited to me. I fit in far better with soldiers. I don’t enjoy taking a life without need, but of the choices I had, it was the best… and it gave me the sea, and the opportunity to see many a port aside from Genoa.”

“And it brought you here,” Yusuf agrees. His mouth is warm against Nicolò’s cheek. “So it must have been a good choice.”

Nicolò’s heart flutters in his chest, and he knows this cannot last, but he refuses to regret, or bring up the inevitable separation once he will have to leave. Instead, he tilts his head back against Yusuf’s shoulder and murmurs agreement. Yusuf kisses him, slow and gentle, and their conversation is postponed for a while.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unexpected conversations, a birthday to celebrate, and ever-growing emotions spinning their net.

The day of the Sultana’s birthday is markedly different already, just by how many people – servants and nobility and what Nicolò thinks are members of the royal family – are afoot in the palace’s hallways.

Nicolò had considered asking where he might be permitted to pick up his sword and practice for a while before Andromache found him.

“Everyone I remotely like is going to be busy today,” she told him, “and I need to get out of the palace for a few hours. Are you interested?”

Nicolò had agreed immediately, hoping the bustling of a busy market would provide a distraction from his thoughts. Leaving Prince Yusuf’s arms and bed that morning should have been far easier than it was – Nicolò has made his decision, and he has never struggled to keep a dalliance casual before. Yusuf did not even attempt to keep him in his bed, just kissed him and told him “until tonight,” and Nicolò does not like that his thoughts linger on how that kiss felt, does not like that he wanted to curl back into Yusuf’s arms and spend a few more moments kissing that mouth.

The market they visit is familiar and not at the same time – all markets are alike in some ways and differ in others. Nicolò has visited enough of them over the years to know to keep his purse tucked into his tunic, and he is left alone after he has paid a few deliberate jostles back with sharp elbows.

All markets are alike in some ways.

Of course Quỳnh is accompanying them, and it wasn’t even a question whether or not Sebastien would come with them. Nicolò doesn’t even pause to wonder whether the man will be spying on _him_ , too – he knows that is Sebastien’s job, he does is almost without noticing. Nicolò knew it when he decided to accept the offer of a friendship, and by now he knows Sebastien will not use the knowledge he has gained about Nicolò unless he has no other choice.

The market is beautiful, and the goods on offer are interesting… but Nicolò is carrying his sword today, and the belt is pressing down _just so_ on the bruise Yusuf’s mouth left on his hip last night. The low ache is a constant reminder he cannot escape, one that drags his thoughts back to last night and this morning again and again. Nicolò suspects he would not mind so much if today wasn’t also the Sultana’s birthday, with the Feast in her honor to take place tonight.

Nicolò will leave tomorrow, go back to Genoa, and reassure everyone of the Sultana’s continued good health as well as her good will towards their city-state, and then he will go back to sailing the Roman Sea. With any luck, he might be called upon to visit Tunis again sometime, but he knows that will be far in the future. There are others who have far more seniority who will visit this court again for the next invitation. For all his determination to enjoy every moment he has of this visit, it still is a shadow at the edges of his thoughts.

It’s Quỳnh who notices – or no, Nicolò is rather certain they both notice, but while Andromache’s eyes narrow in thought when she catches him woolgathering, Quỳnh is the one who links her arm with his and pulls him close into her side, draws his attention back to the stalls they are walking past and demands his opinion on the wares on display.

“I need a gift for my wife,” she confides in him as they browse the offerings of a fruit vendor. Nicolò glances at her, then at Andromache who is trailing them along with Sebastien, both of them in deep conversation. “This is the perfect opportunity if your spy can keep her distracted.”

Nicolò doesn’t even ask how she knows Sebastien isn't just part of his entourage. “I think they are suitably distracted,” he says, watching Sebastien gesture and Andromache nod and then open her mouth again. “What did you have in mind?”

Quỳnh smiles, wide and sharp.

Andromache’s birthday gift turns out to be a beautiful blade slightly longer than Quỳnh’s forearm, slender but wickedly sharp. Quỳnh buys it while Sebastien and Andromache are busy haggling over their midday meal a few stalls away and smiles brightly at the vendor when he promises to have it delivered to the palace that same day. While the man wraps the blade in cloth, Nicolò’s eye catches on a different blade on display. It resembles the one Yusuf is carrying tucked into his sash, except the sheath and handle are silver with fine bronze details, where Yusuf’s is solid bronze. Nicolò considers for a few heartbeats before he reaches for his purse. He ignores Quỳnh’s wide grin as he haggles over the price and tucks the weapon carefully out of sight before they join their companions. “Not a word,” he says to Quỳnh, “or I will tell Andromache you bought her a birthday gift.”

Quỳnh laughs, delighted. “You _do_ know how to play dirty!”

Nicolò smirks at her and goes to take his food from Sebastien. For a moment, he can almost forget the weight of tomorrow looming on the horizon.

It does not last: their way back to the palace takes them past the harbor, where Nicolò pauses far too long to stare at the ship flying Genovese colors. Tomorrow, he will walk up onto that deck and watch the sails unfurl, and it will take him back over the sea to the city he calls home.

“Nico.” Sebastien’s voice is low and, surprisingly, very earnest. “If you wished… we could stay a day or two more. Weather’s not ideal for sailing towards Genoa.”

Nicolò swallows and imagines it – another day, maybe two, he might get to spend with Yusuf. Maybe the Prince is less busy when his mother isn’t hosting so many guests… but no, he is fooling himself. A Prince’s life is not one of leisure, no matter how much some might wish to leave that impression.

“We sail tomorrow,” Nicolò says quietly. “My father and the Doge will be glad to hear our visit was a success.”

Sebastien doesn’t say anything, just looks at him for a long moment. Nicolò wonders what his face is revealing to his friend, but Sebastien just nods in the direction of Andromache and Quỳnh. “The ladies are waiting.”

The day marches on as days do, without hesitation and without mercy. Someone from his entourage has already laid out his best clothes on his bed, and Nicolò stares at them for a long moment before he picks up the first garment and begins to dress. Genoa isn't quite as warm as Tunis is, but the fabrics are still meant for the height of a Ligurian summer and thin enough he will not overheat. He has not worn a vest with so much embroidery on it in years, he wonders for just a moment if the ring with his family’s sigil on it still fits on his hand, and pinning the circlet in place stumps him for a moment before he remembers how to do it. The familiar-unfamiliar process distracts him, but then he pins the light cloak in place with a brooch and finds himself wondering what Yusuf will be wearing tonight. From there, his thoughts drift back to the night before, the hours he spent wrapped in Yusuf’s arms as they spoke about their families.

The room is unexpectedly too small and too empty at the same time, and Nicolò grits his teeth and spins on his heel, heading for the doors. “I am going to the gardens,” he tells his companions as he passes them, and luckily nobody tries to stop him. “I will be back in time.”

His heart is beating too fast in his chest, and he is breathing too quickly and can’t seem to draw in enough air anyway. Nicolò’s chest feels tight until he’s free of the palace and setting foot onto the gravel paths of the gardens.

Dusk is painting the sky in bright blues and fiery oranges and a soft pink, the heat of the day still a memory on the air along with the sweet scents of the blooms. The garden is almost deserted, and Nicolò slows down as he wanders the pathways and tries his best to calm his thoughts.

He has one more night here, and God willing he will spend it with Yusuf again. That is far more than he could have hoped for, and he knows it. To spend one night in a Prince’s bed is one thing, but to be invited back the next one, and to be intimate in other ways than the physical… it is more than he ever anticipated when he dared that first overture. Nicolò knows he should be satisfied with that, and the vague hope that he might visit again. He has to be satisfied with it, because he is the third son and the fifth legitimate child of a man who grasps for power, who will make a match for Nicolò eventually in that pursuit no matter that he will not reach his goal.

Nicolò is staring at a shrub that carries beautiful, star-shaped blooms when he realizes he is not alone anymore. There is a woman striding down the path in his direction, her rich dress and the guards following her at a respectful distance more than enough to identify her even if Nicolò hadn’t seen her before. He bows and expects her to walk past – and nearly swallows his tongue when she stops next to him, close enough he can see her skirt from his slight bow. “Your Majesty,” he offers, and somehow his voice doesn’t tremble.

“Lord Nicolò,” she answers, and Nicolò wonders if that’s amusement in her voice. “Walk with me.”

He doesn’t swallow his tongue, possibly because he’s too shocked to even consider it. “It is my honor,” he says instead, and falls into step with her when she begins to walk again. The Sultana of Tunis walks at his side in silence for several minutes, and the footsteps of the guards behind them grow quieter as the distance grows. Nicolò takes that as a sign of trust, or maybe as a sign that the Sultana could easily take care of a threat to her life on her own. When she speaks, Nicolò is surprised once more.

“Tell me, Lord Nicolò, what is your opinion on Prince Stephen? He keeps angling for an alliance, and I shall have to decide on it soon. You are new to this court, and I find newcomers often have valuable insights.”

Nicolò blinks. “It would be highly inappropriate of me to influence your decision with my opinions, Your Majesty. I am a foreigner with no place in either your court or among your counsel.”

“Please tell me you were not that insistent on appropriateness when you took my son to bed.”

This time, it does feel as if Nicolò swallowed his tongue. He is not used to such blunt statements – even his father always uses pretty phrases to talk about his mistresses. He tries to answer, but his tongue trips over the Arabic.

The Sultana has mercy on him and continues as if she didn’t even notice his desperate fumble for words, or his hot face. “He did ask me if I was opposed, this morning. I find that I am not.”

“Your Majesty?” Nicolò asks, now thoroughly out of his depth. What did Yusuf ask his mother? _Why_ did he ask her?

“Yusuf has shouldered many responsibilities since Jafar left us,” the Sultana says calmly. She steers them down another path, deeper into the gardens into a part where Nicolò has not been before. “He did not tell me much, but that he asked at all… I know my son, Nicolò. You may not be part of my court or my council, but Yusuf certainly wishes for that to change.”

Dread coils low in Nicolò’s belly. “Your Majesty,” he says carefully, “while I… enjoy the time with Prince Yusuf, I know my place. I would not presume…”

He didn’t think his protest through, because he has no idea how to end it without insulting the Sultana, Yusuf, or his own family. He flounders, and the Sultana makes an amused sound. It reminds him of Yusuf, and Nicolò’s heart clenches.

“I have known the joy of marrying for love,” she tells him, and Nicolò nods. He remembers Yusuf saying the same thing, just last night. “It was not easy for me to convince my parents to agree to the match, but it was worth it _._ I would not stand in the way of my children’s happiness, having known the joy it is to be loved for who I am, rather than what I am.”

Nicolò watches her as she stops and turns, and realizes she is looking at the white-marble dome of her husband’s mausoleum, rising above the other end of the garden. He does not protest that three days are surely too little to base a marriage on, or to even begin to speak of love – he remembers the easy familiarity between Yusuf and him. It _is_ too soon to speak of love, but Nicolò knows deep in his heart how easy it would be to fall further. If they were just Yusuf and Nicolò, if it was just a matter of two men and maybe their families… but it is Prince Yusuf and Lord Nicolò, the eldest son of the Sultana of Tunis and the third son of a minor noble in Genoa. There is a lot more at play than merely their own desires.

“A kingdom will always need an heir,” he ventures quietly. The Sultana nods.

“That it does,” she agrees. “But I have three daughters, and if all else fails, adoptions are legally binding. It is how my grandfather became Sultan of Tunisia.”

Nicolò thinks he knew that, somewhere. However, his mind is a maelstrom of thoughts and he is more than stunned to be granted such insights into the thoughts of this woman, who has no need to confide into a man she has seen only once in her court. Maybe it is the day, Nicolò thinks because he cannot think of anything else or he might do something rash. He is not one to do that, and it frightens him. Maybe it is the day, the soft light of the setting sun and the cool air of dusk, a blessing in this land that sits between the sea and the desert and makes the best of both worlds. Maybe it is the silence of the garden around them, as most of the guests prepare for the great feast in the Sultana’s honor tonight.

“Yusuf did mention you were still furious with his brother,” is what he finally dares to say. If the Sultana is not opposed to her children making love matches, well… the Princess of Agrabah certainly is not a bad match. He receives a soft laugh in answer, and then…

“There are appearances that need to be kept,” she says, “and that whole affair is quite a mess. As soon as those three have figured themselves out, and someone has put a ring on everyone’s fingers, I will very publicly announce how glad I am my son made a match that suits him so well. Until then, Jafar knows both of the reasons for my silence, and of my silent approval.”

Nicolò is entirely unprepared for the Sultana to reach out and rest her hand on his arm, entirely unprepared for the serious expression on her face. “I do not ask you to publicly declare your intentions tonight, Nicolò. I do ask you to consider my words. And I asked your opinion on Prince Stephen, to which you have not given an answer,” and her brow rises with that last bit, humor in her eyes. Nicolò finds himself smiling in answer, helplessly. Her son is very much like her, in that.

“Your Majesty, there are no polite words to offer about that man.”

She laughs, and the sound rings out through the quiet garden. “I will see you at the feast, Lord Nicolò.”

Tonight, the grand hall is decorated as is befitting for the birthday of a ruler such as the Sultana of Tunis. The light of many candles in their gleaming chandeliers has the finely woven tapestries glitter where precious metal and stone has been worked in, dances over beautiful arrangements of luscious flowers. This hall is open to part of the gardens, which are lit by countless torches. The guests attempt to outshine the splendor around them, some with more success than others. Prince Stephen looks ridiculous to Nicolò, wearing far too much embroidery and far too gaudy jewelry with it.

By contrast, the friends he’s made in the short days he has been here are radiant tonight. Quỳnh and Andromache and their entourage are seated with Nicolò, Sebastien and the Genovese party, with Nile and Lykon at the table next to theirs. Nicolò doesn’t believe it to be coincidence, especially not after the conversation he had with the Sultana just that day. She is far too astute not to have noticed the tentative alliances that have sprung up.

Nicolò hadn’t thought it was possible, but the food is even better tonight than it was before, a wide variety of specialties, some of which he has never tasted before and some that are familiar. Quỳnh and Andromache identify unfamiliar dishes for Nicolò and Sebastien, which is how Nicolò finds out the kitchen produced dishes from the home countries of all present guests.

Because tonight is the Sultana’s birthday celebration, the meal is followed by a group of professional dancers. Their display of skill and beauty is amazing, and that is before they spill out into the garden and add fire to their dance – literally. Torches fly and are caught in skilled hands in time to the beat of the drum, faster and faster until they reach a crescendo. Nicolò – and he suspects a good two-thirds of everyone else in the hall – start breathing again as the dancers bow and accept the applause that is their due.

There are more displays of skill, all in honor of the Sultana, among them two members of her guard who duel with a level of skill that is awe-inspiring and a singer whose song chases gooseflesh up and down Nicolò’s arms. He doesn’t understand her, guesses the language to be an older dialect, but it doesn’t matter at all. He sees Quỳnh lean into Andromache, sees the warrior Queen smile wistfully and hug her wife close. Nile and Lykon are holding each other’s hand between them, his mouth close to her ear and Nile’s smile radiant and soft. Nicolò dares glance at Yusuf, finds warm, dark eyes meeting his, and yearns to stand, cross the room, and lean into his side. He swallows and looks down at his hands, and then Sebastien’s arm wraps around his shoulders and his friend is squeezing his arm, offering distraction and silent comfort.

The evening progresses, and eventually music is played again and couples drift onto the dance floor. Nicolò stays seated, watches Yusuf dance with noble ladies and lords alike and attempts to order his thoughts and his heart. It isn't made easier by how stunning Yusuf looks tonight – dressed in shades of lavender and violet, the embroidery on his long robe and cloak once again enhanced in silver, he shines beneath the light of candles and torches. Nicolò is happy to watch him for the moment, drink him in and commit the sight to memory – and then _Crown Prince_ Stephen marches up and takes Yusuf’s hand. Nicolò stiffens in silent fury – how _dare_ that man – and Andromache snorts a laugh at his side.

“What,” Nicolò asks, disgruntled, and the warrior queen sips her goblet and smirks at him over the rim.

“You look like an outraged cat, Nico.”

He glares at her, and she laughs, bright and happy. “Go and save him, or I will,” she tells him. Nicolò looks back to the dancers, takes in how stiffly Yusuf is moving, the rigid line of his shoulders, and allows himself to fantasize about being allowed to just walk up and cut in, leave _Crown Prince_ Stephen behind in their wake.

“If I end up in chains for offending anyone, you’re the one who will spring me out,” he informs Andromache. She salutes him with her goblet as he gets up and marches onto the dance floor.

Yusuf spots him as he navigates through the dancers, and the smile he gives Nicolò is so bright and happy, it makes Nicolò feel warm deep in his chest. He likes this bold feeling it gives him. “Excuse me,” he says, holding out his hand for Yusuf, “I believe this is my dance.”

“So it is,” Yusuf agrees, pulling free of _Crown Prince_ Stephen with a fluid move that brings him almost into full contact with Nicolò. Nicolò takes his hand and pulls him in the rest of the way, and they fall into step _so_ easily. Nicolò has to hide a grin at the shocked-outraged expression on _Crown Prince_ Stephen’s face just before the dancers block his view of them.

“Thank you,” Yusuf murmurs after a moment, and his hand squeezes Nicolò’s. “That was… very unpleasant.”

“I can imagine,” Nicolò agrees, guiding Yusuf into a turn. He isn't quite sure how he ended up leading, but Yusuf makes no attempt to take the lead. He follows, his hand on Nicolò’s shoulder and his back warm under Nicolò’s palm. The silky fabric of his cloak brushes Nicolò’s hand as they move.

Yusuf finally breaks the silence between them when the music has changed and Nicolò hasn’t let him go. “You seem distracted tonight, light of my eyes.”

Nicolò can feel his cheeks flush, both at the words and the tone of Yusuf’s voice. “I… had an interesting conversation this afternoon.”

“Oh?” Yusuf leans into him with the dance, warm and so comfortable. “May I ask who was such an interesting conversationalist that you are thinking of it even when I am in your arms, my Nico?”

“Your mother,” Nicolò murmurs, and smiles as Yusuf blinks. “What, did you think I would keep it a secret?”

“Perhaps.” Yusuf’s brilliant smile returns, warming Nicolò. “But if she sought you out and spoke with you, she likes you. I had hoped she would.”

Nicolò doesn’t stumble, but that is more because he is so used to keeping his balance on a ship’s deck and despite surprises than because of any conscious choice. “You cannot be serious.”

Yusuf’s smile doesn’t dim, it gains a teasing edge. “Why would I not be serious about this, Nicolò?”

Nicolò swallows as all the reasons why this cannot work spring to mind again. “The third son of a minor noble, and one who has no hope to win the title of Doge? I have nothing to bring into a partnership, Yusuf.”

He feels daring, addressing him by name like this, but Yusuf’s smile rewards him for his daring. His fingers squeeze Nicolò’s hand again. “You bring yourself, and valuable insights into the politics of Genoa, along with the other ports along the coast. That, and _I want you at my side_.”

And that is the most baffling of all the reasons Yusuf listed. “You barely know me.”

A low chuckle, Yusuf stepping closer on a turn. “I know you can dance,” he murmurs, “and you can ride a horse. I can guess you are good with a blade, you have won the respect of Andromache, which is no easy feat. I know you have not groped me once during our dances, and you have yet to bore me to tears.”

It is a nice list, and it would be perfectly innocent, but Yusuf ends it with, “Also, you made me come so hard I forgot my own name last night, and I do believe we can build from there.”

Nicolò’s cheeks feel feverish, and he glares. “Yusuf!”

The Prince is entirely unaffected, grinning broadly. “You’re cute when you blush.”

Of course, tonight’s feast runs on for far longer than the ones before. By the time Yusuf catches Nicolò’s eye and tilts his head ever so slightly towards the garden, hoping the other will understand, he is exhausted by the many dances, the many meaningless and few downright unpleasant conversations he shouldered. His sisters are too young to take on such tasks yet, and his brother... well, Yusuf doesn’t want to think about that right now.

He’d much rather think of spending the rest of his night with Nicolò, even if they spend it doing nothing more than sitting side by side in the still night. Yusuf loves his family, but he has been alone in a way since his brother left. Having Nicolò there with him these past two days has reminded him it doesn’t have to be that way, and now he yearns.

The smile on Nicolò’s face is tiny and gone so fast it could almost, almost be imagined, but it is there, nonetheless. Yusuf turns to his mother, ready to make his excuses, and finds her smiling at him.

“Go,” she says softly. “Enjoy what time you have, Yusuf. I know today has not been easy on you.”

“Nor on you,” Yusuf says, not disagreeing with her. “Mother…”

“We will speak tomorrow,” she interrupts him gently, her hand coming to rest atop his. “For now, your Nicolò has slipped away into the gardens. Do not make him wait Yusuf, it isn't good manners.”

The warmth in Yusuf’s chest bubbles up and over, and he raises his mother’s hand to his lips and kisses the back of it, farm and familiar. “Thank you, Mother.”

Her smile widens, and then she shoos him off gently. Yusuf goes, skirts the remaining guests, his mind already on the man waiting for him in the shadowy gardens.

Nicolò has wandered further than Yusuf anticipated. Yusuf would not have enjoyed searching for him in truth, not with how much space the gardens take up – but he doesn’t have to. Nicolò is walking along the torch-lit path at a leisurely pace, making it easy to catch up with him. Yusuf reaches for his hand as soon as he’s within reach, and Nicolò smiles at him over his shoulder and lets him take it. Yusuf smiles back and tugs gently, steers them down another path that is less well-lit. There is laughter in Nicolò’s eyes as he follows, a smile playing around his lips. Yusuf wants to put that expression on his face every day.

“Dare I ask where you are taking me, my Prince?” Nicolò finally asks, the laughter in his voice as well. Yusuf grins and stops right there on the path, pulls Nicolò into his arms with the momentum.

“Nowhere,” he admits, wrapping his arms around him to keep him close. “I just want you with me.”

Nicolò’s smile is soft and warm, and his palms come to rest on Yusuf’s shoulders as if they belong there. Yusuf wishes they did, wishes he could have the dream that is dangling just out of reach. “I am with you,” he says. “Yusuf… I would hold you tonight.”

Yusuf’s heart flutters and aches at the same time. “I would let you,” he agrees, and Nicolò’s smile widens. He is not much shorter than Yusuf, but he still has to lean up just a little to press their lips together. It is a soft brush of lips on lips, barely a kiss, but it wakes a deep hunger in Yusuf. He cannot get enough of this man, of his taste and the way his skin feels against Yusuf’s own. He wants to pitch himself against Nicolò’s strength, cross blades with him and see if they are as well-matched in the sparring circle as they are between his bed sheets. He wants more time with Nicolò, wants to wake up to Nicolò’s sleepy smile each morning and fall asleep with his warmth against Yusuf’s each night. He _wants_ , and suddenly he can understand his brother far, far better than before. If this, Nico in his arms and his life, were his prize… he might abandon all his duties as well, and not look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize how unlikely it would be for a Sultana to have a chat with her son's lover of two days, but this is fiction ^^


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A last night in each other's arms for Yusuf and Nicolò. Heartbreak looms on the horizon... does Nicolò dare to reach for what he wants?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I had a shit day, and I know a lot of you had a shit day or are about to have one. Escapism is real and helps, so. Have another one.

The doors to Yusuf’s rooms locked behind them once more, Yusuf takes Nicolò’s hand in his again and leads him out into the walled-off, private garden. The hunger between them is there, but it is not yet urgent, and Yusuf wants more of Nicolò than his passion in Yusuf’s bed, wants to take his time tonight. The illusion of having all the time he wants with Nicolò still holds.

They make a nest of the blankets and pillows strewn along the wide bench. Yusuf urges Nicolò onto it and follows him up, and Nicolò stretches out beneath Yusuf with a little laugh. “You seem to enjoy having me beneath you,” he teases, and Yusuf laughs with him and leans down for another kiss. This one is a little more heated, all wet slides of lips and tongue, and they get lost in it for long moments.

Nicolò finally breaks their kiss with a soft little noise that’s not quite a moan and licks his lips, and Yusuf’s breath rushes out of him on a harsh exhale. “You could have me begging at your feet just with your kiss,” he whispers, watches Nicolò’s cheeks darken in the low light. The moon has robbed him of the warmth in his skin and hair, painted silver and shadows onto him. “Would you have me beg, my Nico?”

“No,” Nicolò whispers immediately, shakes his head a little. “If the choice were mine, I would not have you beg for anything.”

Yusuf doesn’t remind him that the choice _is_ his, has been his since Yusuf made it clear he would welcome Nicolò at his side, in his life. It would serve no purpose except to ruin the moment they have carved for themselves, and he can beg Nicolò to consider it again tomorrow morning. For now, he wants to have the illusion.

“I would beg,” Yusuf tells his lover, lets his voice drop low and intimate. He rolls them so Nicolò is on top of him, enjoys the warm weight as much as the soft, surprised noise he makes. “My Nico, I would beg for your touch, your kiss… would beg for the privilege to have you moan and sigh beneath my mouth…”

“Yusuf,” and that _is_ a low growl in Nicolò’s voice. Yusuf shivers and tightens his hold on Nicolò. “Your voice alone could undo me.”

“We are well-matched then.” Yusuf strokes his hand up Nicolò’s back. “What would you have of me tonight then, my Nico?”

“Just you,” Nicolò tells him, his lids heavy over his ocean eyes as Yusuf’s fingers stroke his hair. “I want to lose myself in you, Yusuf.”

The confession feels so much more intimate out here, in the velvet night of the gardens, than it would even in Yusuf’s bedchamber. Yusuf pulls Nicolò impossibly closer into his body, kisses him soft and lingering. “As you wish,” he whispers into his ear, feels the shiver run through the strong body in his arms.

It isn't easy to undress without letting go of each other. Yusuf curses his many layers under his breath, and Nicolò laughs against his skin as they tangle themselves in his cloak and does not help at all, murmuring into Yusuf’s ear what he wants to do to him once they are naked in sweet, filthy detail while Yusuf fights his cloak fastenings. He ends up on his back again as soon as Yusuf has shrugged out of his long cloak and outer robe, laughter still on his face and bright in his eyes. He is still wearing the circlet pinned to his hair and small silver hoops in his ears, and Yusuf has to stop and just watch him for a moment, kissed-red lips and disheveled hair and dark, hungry eyes, spread out in the ruin of Yusuf’s own richly-embroidered clothing. “You look… Nicolò,” he whispers, stroking his hands up Nicolò’s sides, and his lover smiles and wraps his arms around Yusuf’s shoulders and kisses him again.

Yusuf is careful to set aside Nicolò’s circlet, then does his best to free Nicolò from his clothing while Nicolò distracts him with soft little kisses. His lover emerges from his tunic even more disheveled than before, and then has the audacity to stretch – put all that lovely, naked skin on display – and wink at Yusuf.

“You are overdressed, my Prince.”

Yusuf laughs and leans down for another kiss. “You should do something about it, if it bothers you so much,” he murmurs against Nicolò’s ear. The smile on Nicolò’s lips stretches into a smirk.

“I could,” he agrees. One hand trails down his own neck, fingers idly stroking, and Nicolò moans when they rub over his own nipple. “Or I could just see how long it takes you to break.”

That devilish hand sneaks down further, slips between their bodies and cups Yusuf with bold familiarity. Talented, knowing fingers rub and stroke and squeeze, and it feels so good, but Yusuf knows how much better it feels when it’s Nicolò’s skin against his own naked skin. He moans and bucks into the touch, and Nicolò chuckles, retreating until his touch is so light Yusuf can barely feel it through the fabric. He growls and sits up, missing Nicolò’s body against his immediately. There is nothing graceful about how he strips off his tunic and sash and pants, but Nicolò doesn’t seem to care. He has pushed himself up to his elbows and is watching Yusuf with dark eyes, his lower lip sucked between his teeth and his legs spread as wide as they were when Yusuf lay between them. Shameless and beautiful, Yusuf thinks as he reaches up for his turban. Nicolò makes a low noise, watching the fabric unravel and reveal Yusuf’s messy curls.

“You are so beautiful,” Nicolò tells him, his voice rough. “I could watch you for days and be satisfied.”

It isn't the first compliment Yusuf has received, not by far. It’s not the first compliment a bed partner has given him, either. He isn't entirely sure why he flushes for this specific one, but he can feel the heat of the blood rushing to his cheeks. Nicolò smiles, delighted, and sinks onto his back again, holds out his arms.

“Come and let me hold you,” he invites, and Yusuf could no more resist that gently-spoken order than he could stop the sun from rising in the morning. He drapes himself back over Nicolò’s body, buries himself in his arms and tries his best to lose himself in Nicolò’s kiss.

They rock against each other slowly, Nicolò wrapped tightly around Yusuf. It is slow, and gentle, and so different from the nights before that Yusuf nearly wants to cry. He keeps kissing Nicolò to keep from begging him to stay, keeps kissing him to stop himself from spilling over with emotions he isn't sure how to put in words, and with how desperately Nicolò kisses him back… well. The leg wrapped around Yusuf’s waist, the hands that clench possessively in his curls speak their own language.

They curl into each other once the lust is sated, the mess wiped up with a corner of Yusuf’s tunic and their cloaks drawn up to shield them from the night air. Yusuf’s head rests on Nicolò’s shoulder, his arms wrapped around his lover, and when he closes his eyes he can almost imagine there is no time limit on this, that the sand is not running ever faster through the hourglass.

“What will you do, once you have been to Genoa?” he asks on a whim.

“I don’t know,” Nicolò admits with a sigh. Yusuf makes a questioning noise because surely, Nicolò must have tasks to return to? “I hope I will be allowed to return to my posting,” Nicolò continues. His fingers play through Yusuf’s curls, so careful not to tug on them too hard. “I have enjoyed sailing with the merchant ships. If the decision was mine… but it isn't, and I do not know what plans my father might have.”

Yusuf doesn’t ask if Nicolò will get a choice in those plans. “If you just came back here,” he murmurs, not daring to look down. “Nico… I could have a ship waiting to take you back here.”

Nicolò doesn’t tense, but his fingers in Yusuf’s hair pause. “What would I be?” he asks quietly. “I cannot be just… a decorative bauble, Yusuf. I fought too hard for what freedom I have to give that up.”

There is pain in Nico’s voice, such pain. Yusuf cannot imagine having to fight his parents for his happiness – of course, he did not always get all his wishes fulfilled, but his parents were always willing to hear him out. He reaches for Nicolò’s hand, glad when his lover immediately tangles their fingers.

“I would not ask that of you,” he promises. “There are always positions open in a court, Nico. Will you… may I ask that you at least consider it?”

Nicolò doesn’t answer for a long time, and Yusuf lies still and listens to his heartbeat beneath his ear, trying to burn the sound into his memory.

“I will consider it,” Nicolò finally whispers. Yusuf turns his head and kisses the warm skin beneath his mouth, and then he pushes himself up to kiss Nicolò properly, and they don’t speak for quite a while after that.

Nicolò is tired, but sleep eludes him. Not even the warm darkness of Yusuf’s bed, or the deep, calm breaths of his lover are enough to lull him to sleep, but he finds he doesn’t mind as much.

His body aches pleasantly with the memory of Yusuf’s hands and mouth, his hard length snug and deep inside Nicolò as he rode him beneath the stars. He blushes even thinking about it, but in hat moment he had not cared they were out in the open, for all that it was Yusuf’s private, walled-off garden. They might still have been seen from a higher vantage point, but even now Nicolò finds he doesn’t care. He blushes at his own daring, but he does not regret.

How could he, when Yusuf watched him rise and fall with such awe on his face, when such sweet words spilled from his lips?

Nicolò promised Yusuf he would consider his offer, and now, in the dead of night, he marvels at his own daring in more ways than one. The prospect of breaking free of his father’s long reach, of truly making his own decision for once, is almost too great for him to imagine. The scars on his back are long-since healed and don’t pain him anymore, but they are a stark reminder of what happened the last time Nicolò dared to rebel against his father’s plans. Nicolò is not in the habit of fooling himself: his life’s decisions have not been his own. Had his father wanted him in the church, he would have stayed in that monastery and to hell with his own misery. The only reason he was allowed to leave for the military was that his father thought he might have better use of that than a man of the church, and the only reason he has been allowed to be stationed with the merchants’ ships and not in Genoa is that his father… well, he probably hopes to make use of Nicolò’s knowledge about the ports along the Roman Sea, or maybe he hopes Nicolò will make friendships in high places that might help him. Nicolò has not asked, truth be told he doesn’t want to hear the answer.

The offer to be a part of the Tunis court is very tempting… but Nicolò still hesitates. No matter the Sultana’s words the night before, he _knows_ he is not a good match for Yusuf. He has seen how much the Prince loves his land and his people, has heard it in his voice as they talked late into the night. He will be a good, a fair ruler for his people. Nicolò… Nicolò is still the third son of a minor, a _foreign_ noble. He was not raised to run a country, was not even raised to one day run a household. He was always meant to be a pawn in his father’s bid for power. What place does he have at the side of a man like Yusuf?

The Prince stirs in Nicolò’s arms and sighs, stretches without waking up. His arm pulls Nicolò tighter against his body, gently possessive even in his sleep, and Nicolò’s heart breaks a little more in his chest. He knows he has no place at the side of a Prince, of a Sultan, but his heart doesn’t care.

The man holding him stirs once more, humming sleepily. “Nico?”

“I am here,” Nicolò promises, closing his eyes against the tears that threaten. “I am here, go back to sleep Yusuf.”

“Sleep,” Yusuf agrees quietly. His nose brushes Nicolò’s ear. “My Nico.”

Nicolò swallows, but the tears stream down his face anyway. “Yours,” he whispers once he is certain Yusuf has fallen back asleep.

Morning eventually dawns with a hint of light in the east, and the call to prayer. Usually, that is Nicolò’s cue to leave Yusuf’s bed and his rooms and return to his guest chambers, but today Yusuf pauses and takes Nicolò’s hand. “Will you wait for me?” he asks quietly. “I promise I will not ask you to stay, but… Nicolò, I have no duties this morning and I would spend as much time with you as I am granted.”

Nicolò nods, because how can he say no to such a request? “I will be here,” he promises. Yusuf smiles, bright and warm, and then he is gone. Nicolò is alone in his rooms, alone in his bed. He intended to get up and wash, maybe dress and watch the sun climb over the horizon, but his long night finally catches up with him.

Nicolò falls asleep with his nose buried in Yusuf’s pillow, so fast he doesn’t even realize it happens.

Waking up to Yusuf’s lips brushing his cheek is one of the nicest ways Nicolò has woken up in recent and not-so-recent memory. He hums and turns his head a little, and Yusuf’s mouth brushes against his own. The kiss is slow and chaste, and Nicolò blinks his eyes open to Yusuf’s warm smile.

Last night’s melancholy still lingers in Nicolò’s thoughts, but Yusuf’s smile warms him through. He stretches and angles his head for another kiss, and Yusuf laughs and indulges him.

“As much as I would like to have you for my morning meal,” his Prince tells him, and Yusuf’s greedy hand stroking along his naked flank certainly seems to imply he would like that very much, “I fear I may need more traditional nourishment. Will you come and break your fast with me?”

Nicolò considers pulling Yusuf down into the bedding with him again, but his Prince is right – hunger is gnawing at Nicolò, and their ship is set to sail only that afternoon with the late tide. He has time for a shared meal with Yusuf, and he may even have time to seduce him into one final tumble through the sheets.

“I need to wash first,” he says, and Yusuf’s smile widens.

“I would be glad to be of assistance,” he says, and that is how Nicolò ends up being washed by a Prince. It feels more intimate even than sharing Yusuf’s bed, to stand in the shallow pool and allow Yusuf to drag the clean cloth over his skin, to massage fragrant soap into his hair. Yusuf kisses him as he rinses the lather from his hair, which leads to long minutes trading kisses back and forth. Nicolò has never taken that long to wash before, and getting dressed takes just as much time, interrupted as he is by Yusuf’s kisses. He has no complaints with that.

There is a knock at the door just as Nicolò finishes doing up the row of hooks on his vest. Yusuf frowns and shares a glance with Nicolò before he goes to open the doors, but it is just a servant waiting on the other side. Nicolò doesn’t hear most of the low conversation, but Yusuf returns to his side with a small smile playing about his lips. Nicolò relaxes.

“My mother requests our presence at her breakfast table,” Yusuf tells him, and all the tension that had _just_ left returns to Nicolò at once. He must look like a particularly spooked horse because Yusuf chuckles and kisses his cheek. “I will not force you if you do not wish to go,” his Prince tells him quietly, “but her invitation was specifically meant for both of us.”

Nicolò takes a deep breath, breathes in the mingled scents of Yusuf and the soap his lover used. “Is this an official invitation then?” he asks and relaxes a little again when Yusuf shakes his head.

“As I said, she likes you. Andromache and Quỳnh will be there as well if I know my mother. She enjoys breaking her fast with friends at her table.”

He has dared so much over the past three days, Nicolò thinks and looks up into Yusuf’s warm eyes. What is one more leap of faith, one more thing he should not have but will lay claim to anyways?

“Lead the way then,” he says, and watches those warm eyes light up with delight.

He will pay for this with the pain of a broken heart come evening, but oh, it will be worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I believe in happy endings, I promise!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An ambush, a fight, a trial and time running out... and Yusuf finds a very welcome surprise in his bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, everyone who left such kind comments on this fic, everyone who left kudos. You make my days a little brighter. <3

Yusuf is sorely tempted to take Nicolò’s hand in his again in a mirror of last night as they walk down the hallways of the palace. He doesn’t, because Nicolò is nervous enough already despite his attempt to appear calm, and he doesn’t want to fluster him further with such a public display. These hallways are the ones meant for family and close friends, but there are servants and the occasional guardsperson who see them pass, so he contents himself with playing with the fabric of his sleeve instead and tries not to miss the warmth of Nicolò’s hand.

He is thinking about breakfast with his mother and close friends, thinking about whether he might take Nicolò for a walk through the gardens after or coax him into retreating to his rooms again and keep him to himself for as long as he can, when several things happen at once and the day spins into a whole new direction.

It starts with fast footsteps, which is not in itself unusual enough to alert him to any trouble. Sometimes, someone will be in a hurry with an important message to be delivered or maybe run a little late. But then Nicolò makes a soft sound of surprise and jerks back, and when Yusuf turns…

Well. When he turns to see why Nicolò stopped so abruptly, there is already a naked blade at Nicolò’s throat. Lord Keane is gripping Nicolò’s arm tightly enough his fingers are white against the fabric of Nicolò’s tunic, and his other hand is wrapped around the hilt of the sword at Nicolò’s throat.

“What,” Yusuf begins to ask, but as it turns out, Keane is not alone. In fact, as quite a few more armed men come trotting out of a side corridor and box them in, Yusuf notices both Lord Keane’s coat of arms and that of Prince Stephen. He glances at Nicolò, who is a little wide-eyed but seems to be calm for the moment, then at Keane, then at the men surrounding them. Most have naked swords in their hands, and there is one who carries an actual crossbow, and Yusuf realizes abruptly that he himself is unarmed – he did not even pick up his customary dagger from the bedside table this morning, he was so caught up in the delight of having Nicolò with him. Nicolò is carrying no weapon at all, he is a guest and thus not permitted to carry his sword or even a knife anywhere but on the training grounds while in the palace.

They are not only outnumbered, but also unarmed, and Yusuf is keenly aware that Jafar is much too far away to be of help, even if his brother knows Yusuf is in danger the way he knew on previous attempts on Yusuf’s life. He is alone in this.

Yusuf draws himself up to his full height and glares at Keane. “Unhand my guest immediately,” he demands, “and relinquish your weapons, and you might leave here with your lives.”

He notices the men surrounding them shift uneasily, but Keane doesn’t budge. And then, because of course he is involved…

“You are in no position to make demands right now,” _Crown Prince_ Stephen sneers. He’s not carrying his sword in his hand, but it does sit on his hip. He’s also dressed in his full regalia, and he marches up to stand next to Nicolò as if he owns the palace. Yusuf bristles.

“You have committed a criminal offense,” he informs the prince, indicates the men around them with an impatient gesture. Some of them flinch back as he does, as if… oh. _Interesting_. “Unhand my guest, lay down your weapons, and at least those you ordered into this folly shall be spared.”

“Your guest,” Prince Stephen repeats, and the scorn is practically dripping from his words. The sneer on his face does him no favors at all, Yusuf thinks just before Stephen turns and kicks Nicolò into the backs of his knees. Nicolò, who clearly didn’t anticipate the kicks, yelps as he falls, and Yusuf freezes in horror – but they are so incredibly lucky. Keane manages to tilt his blade in such a way that it doesn’t cut Nicolò’s throat, though Yusuf winces in sympathy at the force with which Nicolò’s knees hit the floor. Stephen grabs him by the hair and forces his head back, and that is the moment in which Yusuf decides this man is going to pay, dearly. Nicolò’s expression is a grimace of pain, and the red-hot fury that shoots up Yusuf’s spine makes him wish he had his blade within reach right now.

“I know you share your brother’s ungodly sorcery,” Stephen informs him, and there’s something in his eyes Yusuf has seen before, in other men who learned of what Jafar can do. “You’re going to use it for me, or your _catamite_ ,” Stephen emphasizes the word with obvious relish and yanks at Nicolò’s hair to make sure everyone knows who he is referring to, “will bleed out right here on this floor.”

Yusuf flexes his empty hands and notices the men flinch back further. They all apparently believe Stephen’s words, and Yusuf decides to try and use that. “What makes you think I could not heal him and pin you to the wall at the same time?” he asks, trying to sound calm.

“You can’t,” Stephen says, and Yusuf wants to remove that smarmy grin with his _fist._ “You don’t have your staff, and if you could do that without it, you’d already have done it.”

“And if I have my staff to do whatever you think you want me to do,” Yusuf purrs, doing his best to sound like Jafar when he was well and truly ticked off, “pray tell, what shall keep me from turning you all into ants to be squashed beneath my heel?”

Jafar can’t do that, his magic works entirely different, and Yusuf has to hope Stephen doesn’t know that. His gaze keeps flicking to the man with the crossbow, to Keane’s sword pressed against Nicolò’s throat. One wrong move, and the sharp edge will cut into Nicolò’s flesh, and Yusuf has seen how fast people die of such wounds. The thought of Nicolò’s blood drenching the floor, of the light leaving those beautiful ocean-like eyes has his stomach curl up into a tight, painful ball.

Stephen is apparently not happy with Yusuf’s refusal to play along. His face is turning a rather unbecoming shade of red. “Stop trying to negotiate,” and speaking louder really doesn’t do Stephen’s voice any favors at all, “Keane is going to take your boy toy to our ship and you and I are going to fetch your staff, and then we will set sail for England. If I have to chain you both up in a cell I will, but you _will bow to me_!”

Yusuf is pretty certain the man is insane, because nothing of that plan would work in any way, shape or form; even if they managed to sneak Nicolò and Yusuf out of the palace without the guard noticing, they wouldn’t reach the harbor without being seen. But to reason with a madman is to waste breath, so he will have to find another way to get out of this situation.

Nicolò is, apparently, quite a few steps ahead of him, or he simply had enough of kneeling with a sword at his throat. Yusuf doesn’t see exactly how he does it because his attention is on Stephen, but everyone notices Keane’s shrill sound of pain. It echoes sharply in the corridor, making a few men wince. Yusuf’s gaze flicks to Nicolò, who is already moving, pushing up off his knees and slamming into Stephen, making him stumble forwards.

It brings the hilt of the man’s sword into reach, and Yusuf doesn’t hesitate.

Nicolò’s knees hurt, and his scalp hurts, and he is _furious_.

Less so over the treatment of himself, he’s had worse all things considered, but over the sheer gall of these men. This is time he could have spent with Yusuf, which adds insult to injury – metaphorically speaking, as he’s reasonably sure his knees are bruised at most. Still, he really doesn’t have the patience to remain on his knees and listen to Crown Prince Stephen dig his own grave ever deeper. The man’s grip in Nicolò’s hair has grown lax as he’s arguing with Yusuf, and while Lord Keane is still holding the sword at his neck, the blade has drooped a little. These men are armed, but they are not wearing armor. It would probably have been too obvious to smuggle into the palace, and it works in Yusuf and Nicolòs favor. Nicolò breathes, watches, considers his move, and then – in that moment when Prince Stephen’s fingers relax altogether in his hair – he throws his weight backwards.

The back of his head connects with Lord Keane’s groin, and the man’s shrill scream of pain is music to Nicolò’s ears. He uses the momentum of his backwards movement to roll to his feet, slams his shoulder into Stephen’s back and sends him stumbling.

Keane’s sword lays where the man dropped it, and though it’s an English sword it’s familiar enough. Nicolò’s fingers close around the hilt and he swings to meet the first blade coming towards him. This is a dance he is far more familiar with than any ballroom fancy, and it isn't long before his blade is red with blood. He tries to wound, tries to subdue, but some men don’t take a hint.

The man with the crossbow falls with a stolen knife embedded in his throat before he can reload, and Nicolò pushes the soldier off who took the bolt meant for him in his stead – not entirely of his own free will, but then it wasn’t Nicolò’s decision to stake a godsdamned _ambush_ in the hallways of the palace.

Yes, he’s still furious.

Keane is back on his feet when Nicolò swings around again, and he’s grabbed a sword from one of his fallen men. He’s clearly still in quite a bit of pain if his hunched-over position is anything to go by, and Nicolò grins at him, mocking and not caring. As far as he is concerned, there is no more call for politeness when someone has held a sword to his throat. “I wouldn’t if I were you,” he informs the man, but of course Keane doesn’t listen to him.

Blades clash, Nicolò twists and pivots neatly and makes the most of the opportunity granted to him, and then Keane is screaming again, a little shriller this time. He has ample reason to scream, seeing as Nicolò just broke his wrist and his forearm and at the very least, dislocated his knee. “Shut up,” Nicolò tells him, “I could’ve done a lot worse,” and luckily, Keane obeys. Well, he whimpers quietly at Nicolò’s feet, but quiet is achieved.

Nicolò turns, blade raised in anticipation of more opponents, and has to smile.

Yusuf is standing in the midst of his own defeated opponents, and he has Prince Stephen’s own blade held against the man’s throat where Stephen is pressing himself against the wall, back-first. He’s not silent, in fact he is yelling obscenities at them, but Yusuf seems happy to ignore the words. Nicolò lets the tip of his borrowed blade sink towards the floor. “Well,” he says, “this is not how I expected my morning to go.”

Yusuf’s dark eyes flick to him from where he was eyeing Stephen, and a smile tugs at his lips. “I did not expect it to go like this either,” he admits, “but you do realize I want to keep you even more, now?”

“Because I proved I am a ruthless fighter?” Nicolò asks, because well. Three of the men laid out at his feet aren’t breathing anymore, their blood a slowly- spreading crimson stain around them, and he can’t say he’s too bothered by it.

“It’s sexy,” Yusuf shrugs and glares at Stephen. “Do shut up.”

“You’re insane,” Nicolò decides, shaking his head. There’s shouting down the hallway now, and the sound of running feet. They’re about to have company.

“I am a man in love,” Yusuf declares, and Nicolò blinks at the words –

He doesn’t get a chance to answer. There’s a shout, and then there are people surrounding them. Palace Guard, yes, but also Andromache and Quỳnh, Nile and Lykon… and the Sultana, Yusuf’s mother. Surrounded by armed guards, looking furious and ready to take up a blade herself, she looks far more imposing than she did last night in the gardens. “What happened here?”

“Mother,” Yusuf says before Nicolò can even begin to form a sentence. “Lord Keane, Prince Stephen and these men ambushed Lord Nicolò and myself on our way to answer your invitation. I do not know how they got so far -”

“There are two unconscious guards down that corridor,” Andromache interrupts him, unbothered by the look Yusuf throws her. Nicolò has to smile, and she smiles back at him. “Nice work, Yusuf, Nico.”

Nicolò finally remembers he’s still holding a sword, and belatedly offers the hilt to one of the Guardsmen closest to him. “Thank you, I think?”

The Sultana looks both Yusuf and Nicolò over, and under her intense scrutiny Nicolò finally realizes he didn’t escape quite as unscathed as he first thought. There are a few places on his arms and on the back of his shoulder where what feels like shallow cuts are beginning to announce their presence.

“We will address this immediately,” the Sultana decides, her mouth a firm line as she glares at Stephen. “I will summon the council. Lord Nicolò, I would hear your testimony before the council if you are well enough to give it.”

“I am, Your Majesty,” Nicolò promises. He’s sore, there are a few places where sharp aches announce he did not escape quite unscathed and the drying blood on his skin is starting to itch, but if the Sultana wants him to be present, he will be.

“You’re both bleeding,” Quỳnh interrupts his thoughts, her voice sharp with displeasure. “Go clean up, we will take care of this.”

“Yes,” the Sultana agrees, and there is amusement in the curl of her mouth again. Her voice is a little warmer. “There is time to make sure you are both presentable. The council members will not yet have been ready to face the day, either.”

Nicolò offers her a bow and turns to head to his guest rooms, but then Yusuf appears at his side and takes his hand – very gently, Nicolò notices. “Come,” he says, “there is no time for you to go to the guest wing _and_ to have a bath drawn. The way to my rooms is far shorter.”

“Yusuf,” Nicolò protests, but they’re already walking down the corridor again, and his hand is still in Yusuf’s. “I… at least let me send someone for clothing…”

“Did you bring another set of garments meant for a full Court appearance?” Yusuf asks, “because Nicolò, that is what we are about to appear for. My mother does not summon the council for anything less than an official trial. This was a serious offence both against her son and current heir, and against an honored guest.”

Nicolò swallows and tries to push his nerves down. He misses the warmth from Yusuf’s hand immediately when Yusuf releases him to close the big doors to his rooms. The way back passed far faster now than it did earlier, when they were walking at a leisurely stroll. “I didn’t,” he admits. “I didn’t anticipate… any of this, really.”

Fighting is easy, compared to this. Nicolò knows how to fight, he isn't nervous with a sword hilt in his palm and an opponent to pitch his skills against. To appear before the full Court of the Sultana of Tunisia… well, that is not something Nicolò was prepared for in any way. He must still sound as panicked as he feels, because Yusuf steps very close and cups his face in both hands. His dark eyes peer at Nicolò, then he leans down and brushes his mouth against Nicolò’s. “Breathe, my darling Nico,” he murmurs. “All will be well, I promise.”

Nicolò swallows, and nods. It is a Court appearance, and he has stood in front of the Doge and his court before and reported on battles at sea, or on diplomatic excursions to smaller courts. If he tries to forget that this is a far greater Court than the one in Genova, he will be fine. He _has_ to be. “What can I wear that will not cause offence?” he asks. “Sebastien will know what to send if I can ask a servant to deliver a message.”

Yusuf chuckles and kisses him again. “Nicolò,” he murmurs. “If you say you did not bring another set of garments fit for a full Court appearance, then there is nothing in your guest room you can wear that will not be… noticed. But we are almost of a height, so you should find something appropriate in my humble wardrobe.”

Nicolò stares, certain he didn’t hear that right. “… _your_ wardrobe.”

Yusuf’s smile is something small, something gentle and tender. “Please,” he murmurs, so earnest Nicolò can barely keep himself from promising to do anything he asks. “Do me the great favor of allowing me to dress you in my clothes for this, my Nico. Consider it both a political play and a parting gift if you must. I would have you keep something of mine.”

Oh, _oh,_ how can Nicolò deny this? To appear dressed in Yusuf's clothes will certainly be noticed, too... but he cannot resist the offer, cannot bear to reject the declaration it is. He doesn’t trust his voice, doesn’t trust what words might spill from his lips if he opens his mouth, so he just nods. Yusuf kisses him again, so soft and sweet.

“Come,” he whispers. “Let me see to those cuts, and then we will make ourselves presentable, yes?”

“Yes,” Nicolò agrees at a whisper, and he knows, in that moment, that he will leave his heart behind with this man when he sets sail. He spares a moment to be glad that Yusuf does not ask him to stay, again, because Nicolò might just say yes in this moment, and damn the consequences.

Yusuf guides him into his bathing chambers as if he can’t let go of Nicolò, helps him undress and step into the shallow pool. He washes the faint tendrils of blood off his skin with gentle dabs of a clean bit of cloth. “Just a few shallow cuts, my Nico,” he murmurs once he is done. “I wish I had been able to watch you dance with a blade.”

“I would have greatly enjoyed an opportunity to watch you with your blade as well,” Nicolò admits just as quietly. “I have never used a saif before.”

“You would be marvelous,” Yusuf tells him. “I know you would.”

The certainty in his voice is enough to make Nicolò smile again. “Teach me next time I am here,” he says, because he has already decided he will move heaven and earth for the chance to return. If he must risk opposing his father’s wishes, so be it.

Yusuf’s “humble wardrobe” takes up a whole room, and while Nicolò did not grow up in squalor, far from it, he stares for a long moment. Shelves with glittering pins and jewelry, lengths of tightly wound cloth, rows upon rows of heavily embroidered robes… it is overwhelming, and Nicolò is glad when Yusuf smiles and directs him to sit on a low bench and goes to select fresh clothes for them both.

The layers of Yusuf’s clothing are far more comfortable, and far lighter, than Nicolò anticipated them to be. He dresses in what Yusuf lays out for him – dark reds edged in bronze and dramatic black, soft linen and shimmering silks. He expected the long robe to be more difficult to move in but finds it easy – the robe moves with him, doesn’t drag on him the way his heavy cloak does. Yusuf shows him how to tie the sash in place with a length of black cord, and it feels as secure as any belt of leather he has worn. Nicolò runs his fingers through his open hair. His circlet still rests on a table by Yusuf’s bed, but he cannot help but feel it doesn’t fit with the clothes he is wearing now. But… “I cannot appear bare-headed in front of the Court,” he sighs. “At least you can help me pin the cursed thing into place this time.”

Yusuf tilts his head and regards him for a moment, then pulls another length of wide fabric from a shelf. “Sit down for me.”

Nicolò glances at the fabric, then at the pin Yusuf picked up from another shelf, and thinks he knows what this is going to be. He is proven right as soon as he sinks down onto the bench in front of the big wardrobe. Yusuf’s fingers stroke through his hair, gentle where Stephen yanked at it, and then the fabric is wound and folded around Nicolò’s head and hair, around and around, and finally tucked in, and pinned in place. “There,” Yusuf decides, “that looks better.”

Nicolò barely dares to turn his head and look into the mirror of polished silver he spotted earlier. Staring back at him is a stranger with his eyes, someone who looks far more regal and imposing than Nicolò has been in his entire life.

“Red suits you,” Yusuf offers, and reappears from where he had shrugged into a fresh robe. He looks even more imposing all in black and bronze, the cut and embroidery emphasizing how broad his shoulders are. Even his turban is such a dark color it appears black – but then he steps behind Nicolò into a shaft of sunlight, and the black shows hints of darkest red. Nicolò swallows, taking in their appearance. His image in the polished silver still appears strange to his eye, unfamiliar in a way he hasn’t been with it since he left adolescence behind, but with Yusuf standing at his shoulder… it feels very, very right, too.

Yusuf’s hand squeezes his shoulder, strong and familiar. “We need to go, Nico.”

“Yes,” Nicolò agrees, tearing his gaze away from their reflection. He firmly tells himself he doesn’t miss the sight the moment it’s gone. “Yes… lead the way.”

Yusuf doesn’t believe he could have been prouder of Nicolò if he tried. His Nico, who marched into the Throne Room at his side with his head held high, who stood before the throne and faced the full council as he recounted the whole unpleasant tale of that morning’s ambush. His voice did not tremble, he did not stumble over his words once, though the lilt of his Arabic was at times colored with his own accent.

The room is packed, the full council is present along with Yusuf’s family – well, those who are here – and the Vizier and the nobility, and even the guests who had not yet left are watching the proceedings. The trial takes up quite a bit of time, since it turns out there are quite a few witnesses to hear, not only the guards who were attacked to allow Keane and Stephen to bring armed men into the family quarters but also servants who overheard Stephen boast he was going to bring home a “true asset”, and guests who speak about Stephen’s near-obsession with Yusuf. There were a lot of truly angry glances in the direction of Prince Stephen and Lord Keane, who are standing before the throne surrounded by guards and bound hand and foot. Someone tookthe time to bind Keane's broken limb, but they didn't wash the bloodstains off. Those of their entourage who survived their idiocy are standing with them, equally bound even if they did not set foot into that hallway.

Yusuf’s mother must have been truly furious with them, but in the end, her sentence speaks of a mercy Stephen does not deserve. At least, not in Yusuf’s opinion.

“You are banished from these lands,” the Sultana announces. Her voice rings through the room, cool and decisive. “Your unprovoked attack on my son and an honored guest speaks of a lack of decency and manners. You have broken the trust this country offered, and we answer in kind. Neither you nor your descendants will be welcome to return, and no envoy of your homelands will be welcome here for ten years. Your ships may not dock in our harbors, your merchants conduct no trade for five years. All of you should consider yourself very blessed by the fact Prince Yusuf and Lord Nicolò emerged from this disgraceful act without serious injury. You have two hours to remove your ships from our harbor, beginning now. Guards, remove them from this palace.”

Yusuf ignores the commotion that breaks out, Stephen yelling and fighting he hands pulling him towards the doors. He looks across the room to where Nicolò stands with Andromache and Quỳnh, Lykon and Nile. He wishes Nicolò had been able to stand closer, but of course he cannot stand with the royal family. Nicolò’s ocean eyes meet his, and he smiles wryly and rolls his eyes. Yusuf wants to march over and take his hand and hold him, wants to steal him away for a few last hours – but then his mother stands from her throne and he remembers his duty. It has never chafed so badly, never felt so much a burden as in that moment, when he falls into step at his mother’s side and goes to watch a foreign Crown Prince and his vassal be banished from their country.

Nicolò watches the procession leave the throne room, and sighs. “They will watch until the ship has left the harbor, right?”

“Yes,” Nile confirms just as quietly. She has stood next to him for the duration of the entire trial, tall and proud and glaring at anyone who frowned at Nicolò’s garments. Now, she turns towards him and there is a smirk playing about her mouth. “But don’t worry, they will be back within a few hours. Before the evening meal, in any case.”

Nicolò tries his best to hide his disappointment. “I will be gone by then. We sail with the late tide,” he explains, and watches Nile frown. “Back to Genova.”

Nile’s frown deepens. “Did he not… Nicolò, please forgive me if I am too forward but I would have bet my crown Yusuf would ask you to stay here.”

It is forward, it is _very_ forward, especially considering he has known Nile for about as long as he has known Yusuf, but Nicolò recalls Nile’s smile that first evening when she danced with him, recalls how familiar she spoke about Yusuf, and he about her. There is friendship there, grown over years and years, and Nicolò has come to trust Yusuf deeply over the past few days. “He did,” he admits very softly. “I cannot, Nile. I couldn’t be a part of this Court and _not_ be with him, and I will not be part of such an affair. He deserves someone who will stand by his side for all to see.”

Nile’s expression hardens, just a little. “And you would not do that?” she asks, and even her voice has cooled. Nicolò winces.

“I would!” The protest is sharper and louder than intended. Nicolò glances around, sees nobody pays them much attention. Most people are still caught up in the spectacle that is Crown Prince Stephen's disgraceful removal. “I would,” he repeats, softer now. “But I am the third son, the fifth child of a _foreign_ noble, and minor nobility at that. I know nothing about running a country, I do not even know much about running a household! What business do I have to stand beside a Prince?”

He is tired from a night without sleep, and a day that turned out so vastly different than expected. Nicolò snaps his mouth shut, wide-eyed at how much he let slip – but the hard expression on Nile’s face has disappeared, been replaced by confusion. As Nicolò watches, she seems to mull his outburst over, and then she shakes her head at him. “Nicolò,” she begins very slowly, “there is no great secret to running a country. When I married Lykon, when the crown was set upon my head, I knew nothing about it, either. I had not been meant for the throne, but it is what it is, and I learnt from my ministers and advisors, and so did Lykon.”

Nicolò thinks he should find some protest to offer, but Nile barely lets him draw breath before she goes on. “I have seen how Yusuf looks at you, Nico, and since we are already being far too frank with each other: I have not seen him look at anyone like that, not in all the years I have known him. I am at this Court very regularly, seeing as we are such close neighbors. He looks at you as if he found his true North, Nicolò. Do not let happiness slip through your fingers because of someone else’s notions of what you should and should not have.”

Nicolò stares at Nile, takes in her earnest expression as well as her words. He stares past her, at the beautiful, ornate throne the Sultana was seated in earlier, and at the slightly smaller one just next to it, the one that remained empty. For the first time since Yusuf asked him to stay, he dares imagine it – deciding for himself, daring to reach for what _he_ wants.

His father will be furious, Nicolò knows that, but he also knows his father has far less power outside of Genova than he thinks he has. The Doge, if presented with due evidence, will likely not care that Nicolò has decided to stay in Tunis… in fact, he might even consider it an advantage.

_I would not stand in the way of my children’s happiness_ , the Sultana told him just last night. She did not frown when Nicolò walked in wearing her son’s garments.

_I want you at my side._ Yusuf’s words, just last night, so honest and open.

Nicolò breathes in, meets Nile’s gaze. “Thank you,” he says softly. “I… I need to find Sebastien.”

Nile holds his gaze for a long moment, then she nods. “You do,” she agrees.

Nicolò smiles, just a little, and turns to find his friend. He has a lot to prepare, and not much time to do it in.

The harbor is full of ships, but Yusuf finds the one flying Genovese colors in the forest of masts and sails. He should be paying attention to the commotion surrounding the English ships, the sailors who rush to prepare ships that were not meant to sail for another day – more evidence towards Prince Stephen’s plan not being well-thought out at all – but his attention keeps drifting to that lone mast. He knows the Genovese party planned to sail with the late tide, and the longer the English take to remove themselves from the harbor, the lower Yusuf’s hopes sink. He had known they would not have much time for a farewell after all this, but as the day progresses, he begins to fear he will not be given an opportunity to say farewell to Nicolò at all.

He wonders if Nicolò returned to his rooms to fetch the circlet he wore the night before, or if he left it behind. It would be a rather expensive token, but Yusuf desperately hopes either the jewelry or at least the tunic Nicolò shed in his bathing chamber will have been left behind. Please, let him keep something of Nicolò’s other than his memories.

The gangways are pulled in and the anchors lifted at last, and the English ships begin to leave… but so does the one flying Genovese colors. Yusuf watches with the taste of ash in his mouth as the sleek ship’s sails catch the wind and billow. _Stop_ , he wants to yell, wants to run and jump into the clear water and swim after that ship, but he knows it is futile. Yusuf swallows the bitterness, does not meet his mother’s concerned gaze when they finally, finally turn to ride back towards the palace. _Too late_ , his heart mourns, _far too late, he is gone already_.

The loss is even crueler after having seen Nicolò dressed in his own clothes, having seen how well he wears them. For a single, shining moment as they walked into the throne room, Yusuf could have imagined Nicolò walked at his side every day, was his in all the ways that matter. He had let himself dream, and now he has nothing but dreams and memories.

Yusuf dreads the emptiness of his rooms, as much as he dreaded it when Jafar was gone. Then, he found willing partners among the guard and exhausted himself in the practice ring until he could sleep at night, but the guards will all be busy now, in the wake of Stephen’s ambush. Yusuf considers running through drills on his own… but his heart isn't in it. Yusuf sighs and turns down the corridor towards his own rooms anyway. If he is lucky, he might still find Nicolò’s scent in his sheets. Pathetic, maybe, but he cannot find it in himself to care. Tomorrow, he will see about asking his mother if she might condone a diplomatic journey to Genova. For the rest of today, he will allow himself to be miserable and curl up in his sheets like a child.

Yusuf steps into his rooms and freezes, hand going to the hilt of the sword still hanging from his hip. His rooms appear undisturbed at first glance, but he has the uncanny sense that someone is here. Slowly, carefully, he walks further inside.

“I do hope you will not mind sharing your wardrobe with me for a while longer,” comes a voice from his bedroom. Yusuf’s heart simultaneously tries to stop beating and pick up its pace, and the result is a painful lurch. He swings around on one foot, fingers dropping from the hilt of his sword. There are too many emotions, too many thoughts swirling through his mind at once, and the result is a numb sensation spreading through his limbs.

There, leaning against the wall next to Yusuf’s bed, arms crossed over his broad chest and wearing a soft smile, is Nicolò. He is still dressed in the clothes Yusuf gave him, but there is a chest sitting on the floor next to him that wasn’t there before, and what has to be Nicolò’s sword leaning against the wall. Yusuf stares and tries to find words in any language.

Nicolò’s smile grows, and he pushes off the wall and crosses the room to where Yusuf stands as if rooted to the spot. His hands cupping Yusuf’s face are warm, are _real_ , and that is what breaks the spell. Yusuf makes a noise he will deny until his deathbed was a sob and wraps his arms around Nicolò. “You are here.”

“Yes,” Nicolò agrees. His thumbs stroke Yusuf’s cheeks, his hands cradle him so carefully as if he were made of spun glass. “I am here.”

There are too many questions crowding onto Yusuf’s tongue, too many things he wants to say. Instead of voicing any of them, he pulls Nicolò in for a kiss.

“I thought you gone,” he whispers when he can speak again, his mind quieted at last by the reality of Nicolò in his arms, Nicolò’s lips against his. “I saw your ship sail, and I thought you on it… Nicolò, please do not make me guess.”

Nicolò kisses him again, soft and sweet. He is relaxed in Yusuf’s arms, smiling as if a burden has been lifted off his shoulders. It makes his eyes shine brighter, or maybe that is Yusuf’s imagination. He will write poetry for this man, he knows he will. Already, his mind is searching for words to describe his eyes, his smile. Nicolò’s smile is beautiful, and he is smiling at Yusuf right now. “I spoke with Nile,” he says into the warm space between their mouths. “And she gave me… a different outlook, I suppose. Then I found Sebastien, and he cursed at me at length while I wrote messages for my father, and for the Doge di Genova. We might receive a very angry response from my father,” he adds with a little laugh. “But there isn't that much he can do. Sebastien will make sure he gathers what I asked him to send here before he delivers his messages.”

Yusuf blinks. “Does that mean…”

“It means I would stay,” Nicolò says when Yusuf trails off, unable to go on. “I would stay and see how well we fit… my Prince.”

Yusuf can feel how wide he smiles in response, helpless in the face of the joy spreading in his chest. “Call me that again, my Nico,” he pleads softly, and he can feel the laugh rumble through Nicolò’s chest where his hands rest on his back, where they are pressed close.

“My Prince,” Nicolò whispers against his mouth. “My Yusuf… will you have me?”

“As long as I draw breath,” Yusuf promises, and then proceeds to kiss Nicolò until they are both panting, and Nicolò’s eyes have gone dark with lust. “I will have you, my Nico… again and again.”

Nicolò laughs, wild and happy and free, and Yusuf watches him and feels his soul settle into a new reality.

_I love you_ , he thinks, and kisses that laughing mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they lived happily ever after...
> 
> The final chapter will be nothing but gratuitous smut, which demanded to be written but didn't fit into the main story.  
> I love this 'verse and these characters, and it feels as if there are still a few stories to tell...


	7. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicolò and Yusuf, and questions that need to be asked and answered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, ehm... I may have written a whole additional chapter / epilogue because some of you had such great questions in the comments that... well. I was inspired.  
> This is for all of you. Thank you for reading, thank you for commenting, thank you for being awesome!
> 
> Today was a shit day again, so guess what? I'm gonna make myself feel better by giving y'all more fic!

They do not leave Yusuf’s rooms again that evening. Yusuf has barely enough patience to call for someone to bring them something to eat and send a message to his mother. He almost wants to tie Nico to his bed while he takes care of these tasks, but Nico laughs and kisses him again.

“I will be here,” he promises. “I would not do that to you, my Yusuf. Not now.”

Yusuf doesn’t think he will ever tire of hearing Nico call him _my Yusuf_ in that tone of voice, that warm affection that tells him Nico’s heart is beating for him just as surely as his is beating for Nico.

Nico is _here_ , in his home, and he promised he would stay. Joy bubbles through Yusuf’s veins, as bright as any magic his brother can call up.

Nico has wandered out into the private garden when Yusuf returns from sending his messages, but he is still close enough to the door Yusuf spots him immediately. To be able to walk up to him and wrap him in his arms, hold him close and feel him relax into Yusuf’s arms brings more bright, bubbly joy, and with how Nico sighs and smiles, it must be the same for him. His hands come up to cover Yusuf’s where they rest over his belly, warm and sure, and they stand silently in each other’s company, watching as the sky turns dark in the east until there is a knock at the doors, and Yusuf sighs and reluctantly releases his Nico. “I suppose I should let them in,” he says.

“Please,” Nico agrees with a soft laugh. “I did not eat all that much today… there was a lot of excitement, you see.”

“You shall have to tell me all about that,” Yusuf says, happy to play along. “I will make sure you are sated.”

Nico throws him a glance that warms Yusuf all over. “Oh, I am sure you will,” he purrs, and Yusuf is _very_ grateful his clothes are loose enough to hide any reaction his body sees fit to have in answer to that. It would not do to answer the door in such a state, otherwise.

The kitchens sent enough to feed five men, Yusuf discovers as the plates are set down on the low table in his sitting room. News must have travelled fast, because the young man who sets down the final items – a pot of cool mint tea and the high glasses that belong with it – glances up at Yusuf with a wide smile. “We are happy for you, your Highness,” he says quietly, bows and shoos everyone else out of Yusuf’s rooms.

“Gossip travels fast everywhere,” Nico comments, sounding amused. “I think the Sultana was informed I did not leave even before you knew.”

That is entirely possible, but it’s only proper for Yusuf to have sent word as well. “She will probably invite us to attend breakfast with her tomorrow morning.” Yusuf watches Nico, looking for any sign of fear or nervousness.

“I can’t say I will not be nervous about that,” his beloved admits. He walks closer after turning up the lamps, the warm light reflecting off the rich embroidery of the robe he still wears. Yusuf hopes Nico will allow him to dress him in Yusuf’s clothes every day, because he knows he will never tire of the sight. “Your mother is… impressive.”

“She is different in private,” Yusuf reassures him. He sinks down onto the many pillows strewn around the low table, holds out a hand for Nico in invitation. Nico smiles and takes it, allows Yusuf to pull him in close. “She will want to get to know you better and welcome you into the family.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Nico murmurs quietly, and Yusuf decides to leave it at that. He has heard enough to understand why his Nico his wary, and to tell him there is no need for it will not help – Nico has to find that out for himself. Yusuf will be there for him until he sees his mother is exactly that, when in private – a mother, who loves her children and wishes to see the happy.

Yusuf’s appetite has returned, but he doesn’t realize how hungry he truly was until he swallows his first bite. Nico laughs at his expression.

“I do believe the kitchens had the right idea,” he teases, but he is eating just as quickly as Yusuf is – neat, but quickly. Yusuf nods, too busy to eat to answer.

The wonderful thing about the cushions he decided on for his private rooms instead of chairs is that, once they are sated, Yusuf can simply lie back and pull Nicolò into his arms, and they are comfortably snuggled up against each other.

He will have this every day, Yusuf realizes as Nico sighs his contentment and rests his head on Yusuf’s shoulder, his arm a warm weight thrown over Yusuf’s chest. He will have to spend a bit of time on his knees in prayer to thank Allah for granting him such happiness.

“Can I ask you about something?” Nico asks eventually, his fingers playing with one of the fastenings of Yusuf’s robe.

“You can ask me everything you wish to know,” Yusuf promises. “I will do my best to answer – I want to keep no secrets from you, my Nico.”

There is a smile in Nico’s voice when he speaks again. “That whole… affair with that idiot, Stephen, this morning… what was he screaming about?”

Yusuf sighs. “How much do you know about Jafar?”

Nico taps his fingertip against the bits of metal embroidered onto Yusuf’s robe. “I know he is your twin,” he begins, “and I know he left shortly after your mother’s last birthday a year ago. I know he apparently fell in love with a princess and a man who might be a prince or might be a street thief.”

Yusuf laughs at that. “From the message Jafar sent, he might be a Prince of street thieves,” he tells Nico, who laughs with him. The joy still bubbling in his veins allows him to continue, though he worries what Nico might think about the truth. “Tunisia is _old_ ,” he begins, “and there is an old kind of magic in these lands that never left, never dried up. It runs in my family line, and my mother says our grandfather once used it to save the Sultan of his time. The Sultan, who had no children to name as successor, adopted our grandfather and named him his heir when he saw how loyal our grandfather was to Tunisia, and to its people.”

Nico’s fingertips follow the stitched line meandering over Yusuf’s chest up to his shoulder. His body is still relaxed against Yusuf’s side, resting so calm and trustingly in his arm. “Your mother told me your grandfather became Sultan through adoption.”

Yusuf reaches for that hand and tugs it up to his lips, presses a kiss to the palm. “My mother was told we both had a talent for it by the mage who was on her council when we were born, but I… I was never interested in finding out if that was true. There is a lot of responsibility that comes with truly learning Magecraft, and there is a lot of responsibility with being the heir to the throne, and… I wanted to devote myself to one or the other. Jafar… he didn’t get a choice. Magic claimed him when he was a child, and he _had_ to learn how to control it.”

“A lot of responsibility,” Nico echoes softly. Yusuf nods.

“Quite a few people over the years saw Jafar use his magic,” he continues. “And given how often Jafar and I dressed exactly alike… Stephen obviously believed we can both use it, and I truly don’t want to know what he thought I – or Jafar – could do for him.”

“It would not have been anything good,” Nico agrees. He shifts and pushes himself up onto his elbow, and Yusuf tries not to hold his breath. But all Nico does is brush their mouths together, soft and reassuring. “Thank you for telling me.”

Yusuf cups Nico’s cheek and watches as those ocean eyes flutter close with the caress as Nico leans into his palm. “No secrets,” he repeats, and that joy bubbles up again when Nico kisses him, slow and thorough.

“No secrets,” he agrees when he is done stealing Yusuf’s breath. “Ask me, Yusuf.”

His name on Nico’s tongue hasn’t lost any of its power yet, and Yusuf hopes it never will. He doesn’t do Nico the disservice of asking if he is sure, just wraps both arms around him and tugs him down onto Yusuf’s body, holds him close. “Who took a lash to your back, my Nico? And can I kill them?”

His Nico, his strong, courageous Nico, _laughs_. “No you can’t,” he says, “not unless he is foolish enough to come here and do something truly idiotic. It was my father.”

Yusuf growls and tightens his hold on his beloved. “I refuse to believe you could have done anything to warrant such a punishment.”

“In hindsight, I did not, no.” Nico sighs and goes back to playing with a fastening of Yusuf’s robe. “It happened before I was given the choice between the Church and the military. There was a man… a boy, really. We were both nothing but boys in men’s bodies, and he had a way to smile at me that made me think I was his world. He certainly was mine… and I made the mistake of asking my father for permission to court that boy. He was furious with me for being so “ungrateful”, as he termed it. Young and foolish as I was, I argued with him and claimed to be the master of my own fate. My father decided to teach me how wrong I was in a way that would leave a permanent memory.”

“If he dares to show his face here, I will kill him,” Yusuf decides, furious for his beloved. So much of Nico’s hesitation appears in a new light now, and he cannot imagine how afraid the boy his beloved was must have been. He is distracted from how much he wishes to kill the man though, because Nico cups his face in both palms and kisses him.

“As much as I appreciate your wish to avenge the boy that I was,” he murmurs when they part, and Yusuf is astonished to see his smile, “it is just a memory, my Yusuf. It is not a good one, but I am not in pain anymore. I am free,” he adds, and his smile grows more brilliant. “I am with you, and I would celebrate that instead.”

Yusuf stares up at the man his heart chose to fall in love with, astonished beyond words at his strength, at how easily he pulls Yusuf from the depths of his anger and calms him. “Whatever you desire,” he whispers, and means it. If Nico asks him for the stars, Yusuf will do his best to lay them at his feet.

But his Nico doesn’t, of course. His smile turns a little wicked, a familiar sight by now. “You had me in your lap yesterday evening,” he whispers, leaning close enough that Yusuf can see nothing but those beautiful ocean eyes. “I felt you so deep, my Yusuf… I want to have you like that, want you to feel as claimed as I did.”

Yusuf didn’t think it was possible, not tonight after the emotional toll the day took, but Nico is a force of nature. The wave of lust that washes over him leaves him a little dizzy, because he clearly remembers how beautiful Nico looked the night before, remembers how arousing it was to watch him rise and fall against the backdrop of the star-studded night sky. “Take me to bed then,” he whispers, and watches those gorgeous, gorgeous eyes darken with lust. _A storm in his eyes_ , he thinks, _and I shall gladly be swept up in it_. Then he nearly laughs at himself, because of course he already thinks in poetry about this man.

Their clothes are a trail of bright silks leading to Yusuf’s bed, and by the time Nicolò falls onto the mattress, the only fabric remaining on his person is the turban Yusuf wound around his head in what feels like another life now.

He did not know he could feel this bold, this free, but now that he does… well. Nicolò stretches and enjoys the noise it pulls from his lover’s throat.

Yusuf, one knee on the mattress and wearing nothing but his thin undertunic, is staring at Nicolò as if he is the answer to all his questions, frozen in the motion of joining him. It fans the arousal sizzling in his veins higher, makes him feel that much bolder. “Come join me,” he invites, holding out a hand, and it is gratifying how quickly Yusuf scrambles into bed with him, how eagerly he drapes himself over Nicolò.

Even kissing Yusuf is different with this potent mixture of joy and freedom and want in his blood, and it is addictive. Nicolò keeps pulling Yusuf back in for more kisses, keeps one hand cupped around the back of his neck as he fumbles blindly for the tin sitting on the bedside table. Yusuf isn't any help, his hands stroking Nicolò’s chest and ribs and occasionally his shoulders, hips rolling against Nicolò in needy little movements. The moan he breathes into Nicolò’s mouth when Nicolò rubs the first ointment-slick finger over his tight entrance, low and full of hunger, is a sound Nicolò knows he will want to hear again and again.

“Make it fast,” Yusuf pleads between kisses, “please Nico, I want to feel you tomorrow.”

“Take this off,” Nicolò demands, letting go of Yusuf for just a moment to tug at the tunic. “I want you bare for me, Yusuf.”

The tunic goes flying off the bed, Yusuf strips it off so fast. His hips rock back into Nicolò’s touch, needy and eager, and Nicolò is caught up in his urgency now, swept along in Yusuf’s hunger. His lover’s body is hot and tight around the first finger, but Yusuf just moans and demands, “more!” in a rough growl.

“I will not hurt you,” Nicolò vows, reclaiming those full lips for another kiss. “Not ever, Yusuf.”

“You won’t,” Yusuf promises, his hands greedy in their touches now, but Nicolò can feel how tight he still is. He nips that full bottom lip, distracts his lover with more kisses as he works to open him up, make room for himself. Yusuf allows it until he is writhing against two of Nicolò’s fingers, then he pulls free of Nicolò’s gentle hold and sits up.

“Enough,” he gasps out, “Nico, I swear I am ready, please let me have you!”

It is such a heartfelt plea, and Nicolò wants him so badly, so he relents. His fingers slip out as Yusuf wraps slick fingers around Nicolò’s erection, coating him in the slippery ointment. Nicolò manages to sit up and lean against the headboard, and then Yusuf is in his lap and sliding down onto his cock, moaning as he’s filled. Nicolò grits his teeth against the wild need to yank him down by the hips, encase himself deep in that warm, tight body.

This is far from the slow, gentle lovemaking of last night, but it is what they need. This is _real_ , Yusuf’s muscles clenching around Nicolò’s erection, his hips in Nicolò’s grasp, his mouth on Nicolò’s mouth.

Yusuf rocks up, and Nicolò loses his breath on a gasp, on a kiss, on a moan. It isn't slow, but it isn't fast, either. Yusuf clings to Nicolò as he moves, his nails digging into Nicolò’s skin, and Nicolò holds him just as tightly, just as desperately.

“Mine,” he gasps out, the thought bright and hungry in his mind, and Yusuf groans, nods. “Yours,” he agrees, his fingers digging in harder, “yours Nicolò, my Nico, oh please…”

Nicolò kisses him again, can’t help it – he is addicted, and he doesn’t care. Let Yusuf’s kisses be what keeps him alive, what keeps him tied to this life, and he will be a happy man. He rolls his hips up on Yusuf’s downstroke, matches their rhythms, and he can see the moment Yusuf falls – sees his eyes widen, his pupils blow out and his lashes flutter before he arches, before the shudder rolls through his body and his muscles clench and spasm.

It’s beautiful, and he wants to be the cause again and again. His own release is almost an afterthought as he cradles Yusuf’s trembling body close.

His beloved kisses him, still with an edge of desperation. Nicolò reaches up to finally pull the turban all the way off, strokes his fingers into those beautiful curls as they kiss. He rests his forehead against Yusuf’s when they part for breath, keeps him close. “You are mine,” he whispers, as certain as he has ever been about anything. “And I am yours.”

“Mine,” Yusuf agrees on a whisper. His body clenches around Nicolò’s softening cock, drawing a whimper from Nicolò’s lips. “My moon.”

“My guiding star,” Nicolò tells him, and he has never been one for poetry, but Yusuf might be the one to change that. He deserves to be told what he means to Nicolò. “My destiny.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The gratuitous smut addition will be the next chapter, promise. 
> 
> (Also, all of you who are interested in finding out more about Yusuf and Jafar's relationship... that one will definitely be written. The plot bunny is already nipping at my heels.)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicolò gets tied to their bed, and a very good time is had by both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bonus smut scene that demanded to be written and didn't really fit into the main story arc. Enjoy ;)

They’d spoken about it before – well, spoken about it inasmuch as whispering fantasies into each other’s ear counts as speaking about anything – and the memory springs to the forefront of Yusuf’s mind one evening as he undresses.

It’s coincidence: Nicolò walks into the room just as Yusuf is winding the fabric of his sash around his hand to set it aside. Nicolò’s breath hitches, and his greeting dies on his lips. Yusuf looks up and sees the flush spread over his cheeks, the way his eyes have gone wide and dark, and feels a smirk curl his lips.

“Nicolò,” he says, and his voice has dropped, gone low and gravelly with the sudden rush of lust. “Come here.”

Nicolò swallows and crosses the room with slow, deliberate steps. “What will you do to me, my Prince?” he asks, a little playful and obviously more than a little interested. Yusuf grins and lets the sash unravel again.

“Get undressed… keep the tunic,” he amends when his gaze drops to the dagger tucked into Nicolò’s sash. “And then I want you in my bed, my Nico.”

“Do you now,” Nicolò drawls, but his hands drop to his own sash and begin to undo it. “And why should I give you what you want, hmm?”

Yusuf chuckles, dragging the silky fabric of his sash through his fingers. “Because you know I will make it worth your while, hayati.”

Nicolò hums, letting his outer robe drop to the floor. He takes his time with unlacing his boots, peering up at Yusuf from where he is crouched as if he doesn’t know exactly what that does to his husband. Yusuf’s dick throbs in his pants.

Nicolò’s boots and pants, then his smallclothes join the growing pile of his clothes. His beloved stretches once, rising on his toes as he does, then smirks at Yusuf and tilts his head. “Would you have me keep the turban, too, my heart?”

Yusuf chuckles and steps closer, wrapping his fingers around one strong wrist. Nicolò’s breath leaves him in a sharp hiss.

“Maybe I want to have the privilege of taking it off myself,” Yusuf whispers against Nicolò’s lips. Those unique ocean eyes darken further as Nicolò sways into him. Yusuf brushes his mouth over Nicolò’s, listens to the small, hungry noise he makes and reaches up to tug the needle free that keeps the fabric in place. It doesn’t unravel until he tugs at it, too – he has tied it into place himself just that morning, Nicolò sitting patiently between his knees. The fabric slithers down along Nicolò’s shoulders and back, releasing his hair. It has grown even longer, brushing Nicolò’s shoulders, and Yusuf runs his fingers through the length now, then closes his hand around a fistful and tugs. Nicolò moans.

“Get on the bed, light of my eyes.” Yusuf nips that tempting lower lip. “Now.”

Nicolò whines when he’s released, blinking for a moment. When he climbs into their bed, it’s not quite with his usual grace, and Yusuf smirks to see it.

“I am in your bed,” Nicolò drawls once he’s spread himself out on his back. “Now what, my Prince?” He’s regaining his wits, and while Yusuf loves their banter, right now that’s not part of his plan. He climbs on top of Nicolò, half-dressed as he himself still is, and loops the fabric of his sash around Nicolò’s wrists in a secure tie.

“Now, I will have you at my mercy,” he murmurs against Nicolò’s ear, pulling his bound hands up to the headboard. “Helpless to do anything but endure what I wish to do to you.”

Nicolò’s breath hitches and he arches up into Yusuf’s weight with a low moan. “Such a hardship,” he protests, “surely you will yearn for my touch soon enough – _oh_!”

Yusuf chuckles and rolls his hips against Nicolò’s again, feels his growing hardness through the fabric of his clothes. “Your clever tongue will not help you this time,” he promises, sitting back on Nicolò’s lap to watch him. His tunic is rucked up teasingly to reveal the paler skin of his belly and a hint of the more tanned chest, and Yusuf’s mouth waters at the thought of kissing his way along that tempting skin. He reaches for his dagger where it’s already hidden between the mattress and the wall in its customary hiding spot and watches Nicolò’s eyes widen as he unsheathes it and grasps the fabric of Nicolò’s tunic in his other hand. Nicolò goes very still beneath him, barely breathing.

“Yes?” Yusuf asks, holding Nicolò’s gaze. He will never do anything his husband might fear, and if Nicolò shies back from this he will push the fabric up as far as it goes and work with that – but then Nicolò tilts his head back and bares his throat and goes pliant beneath him.

“Yes,” he whispers, then sucks his lower lip between his teeth. His gaze does not leave Yusuf’s. “Do it.”

Arousal is a sharp bolt down Yusuf’s spine, and he takes a long breath to steady his hands before he sets the blade to fabric. It parts easily on the sharp edge, fluttering to the sides to reveal naked skin beneath. Nicolò’s breath shudders out of him on a moan, and Yusuf can feel the twitch of his erection beneath his ass. He sheathes the blade and sets it aside, strokes his hands up Nicolò’s chest. “I have you at my mercy,” he muses, fingers playing with one of Nicolò’s nipples. “And yet I find myself craving your cock in my hole. You have ruined me, Nicolò.”

Nicolò groans and tries to buck up into Yusuf, shivers when he realizes he can’t. “As you have ruined me,” he gasps out. “Have me however you want, my Prince.”

It is very tempting to do just that, splay Nicolò’s legs wide and lay claim to his body until they are both breathless and spent… but it has been days since Yusuf had the pleasure of feeling Nicolò in his body, both of them too exhausted to do more than curl up with each other and find release through gentle touches. His body trembles with eagerness, and really, the decision was already made when he straddled his lover’s lap. “I will,” he agrees, leans forward to kiss Nicolò until they’re both breathless. “It has been far too long since we had time, my love.”

To stand and leave Nicolò’s warmth even for a moment seems too much, and Yusuf merely strips off his pants and smallclothes before he climbs back into his lap and claims his mouth again. Nicolò kisses him back with as much hunger, as much need, and it fuels the fire burning in Yusuf’s blood. He throws his robe to the side as far as it will go, reaches blindly for the familiar tin and makes a triumphant noise when he finds it. Nicolò blinks, then groans.

“You will not…”

“Yes, I will,” Yusuf interrupts him, using both hands to open the tin. He sets it down within reach and nips along Nicolò’s jaw through the shadow of his beard, enjoying the way it rubs against his lips. “And you will enjoy the sight even more than if I were naked, will you not my Nico?”

His low groan and the desperate buck of his hips tell Yusuf he is right even before Nicolò nods, turns his head to capture him in a kiss. “I would see your head bare,” he breathes against Yusuf’s lips, wide-eyed and pleading. “Please, my love.”

Yusuf is incapable of denying his husband when he asks for it so sincerely. He sits up and reaches for the pin and fabric, undoes the wound cloth and shakes his head to free his curling hair. Nicolò’s erection twitches against his ass, and he grins and runs his own fingers through the mess. “Like this, my Nico?”

“Yes,” Nicolò breathes, and then he groans when Yusuf lowers himself to his elbow again, slicks his fingers in the tin and reaches back. “You are a cruel man to tease me thus, my love.”

“Oh, but I plan to tease you worse,” Yusuf promises, his voice going low and rough as he rubs slick fingers over his own entrance. “I plan to take my time with you, husband.”

“Do you now,” Nicolò purrs, and oh _fuck_ , Yusuf did not think this through. “You are trembling already just from your own touch, my love… go on, push it in. You must feel so empty, no? Give yourself a taste…”

 _Fuck_ , Yusuf thinks as his body obeys almost without thought, his husband knows him far, far too well by now. “I should’ve gagged you,” he gasps out, feeling his own finger breach his body. “Your wicked tongue silenced.”

“You love what my wicked tongue can do to you,” Nicolò retorts, and he’s just as breathless as Yusuf is. “Both the words I speak and what I do to your flesh when I have you beneath me. Does it feel good to finally have something inside, hayati? Or is it not enough for your hungry body? You make such beautiful sounds when you are stretched wide on my cock, I’d hear them now.”

Yusuf’s body clenches around that single finger that, no, isn't enough by far. He whines between his teeth, hips rocking back into his own touch, and it’s too soon but he _needs_ , and the slight burn of a second finger pushing in just fans the need higher.

The stretch makes him groan, and he leans in and kisses Nicolò again when his husband opens his mouth to keep talking. Nicolò makes a surprised noise, then kisses him back just as greedily, which does nothing to help Yusuf keep the remains of his wits around him. Nicolò sucks on his tongue and his body clenches around his fingers, Nicolò’s teeth nip at his lower lip and Yusuf whines, his cock jumping as his fingers twitch in his hole.

“You need it so bad, ya amar.” Nicolò’s voice is even lower, even rougher. He sounds half-wrecked already, and Yusuf grits his teeth against the sheer need in his belly. “Give yourself another finger, hmm?”

Yusuf considers it, mouthing at Nicolò’s throat as he works his fingers in and out of his hole. He could do that… but he wants the burn, the ache, wants to feel Nicolò tomorrow when he’s sitting through another endless round of negotiations. He nips the tender skin just below where Nicolò’s collar will sit, listens to the moan it pulls from his husband’s throat and sits up, moaning himself at the change in angle. His free hand strokes lubricant over Nicolò’s cock, hot and heavy in his hand and making his hole clench around his fingers in need. He shuffles into position, pulls his fingers free at the last possible moment and sinks down – slow, as slow as he can bear. Nicolò’s cock slips in bit by bit, stretching him open so deliciously. Yusuf moans, lets his head fall forward and breathes through the ache.

“Fuck, Yusuf!” Nicolò’s voice is desperate, his eyes wide as he stares up at Yusuf, and Yusuf laughs and clenches around his length just to see him arch as far as his bonds will allow it. Nicolò’s eyes roll back on a moan, and then he’s cursing in Ligurian as Yusuf sinks down further, takes him in all the way. Yusuf smirks down at him, catching his breath.

“You were saying?”

Nicolò whimpers, then manages Arabic again. “You are a needy thing,” he gasps out, “and you feel so fucking tight, Yusuf, please move!”

Yusuf laughs, rising just a little before he sinks down again. Nicolò stretches him so good, the drag of his cock against his rim lights little fires in Yusuf’s belly and along his skin. “Still so demanding even when I have you tied to our bed, my Nico.”

“You love it,” Nicolò manages, his eyes wild as he looks Yusuf up and down. “I want to wreck you, still wearing your finery and riding my cock, _fuck_ , Yusuf…”

He runs out of words then, because Yusuf’s started to pick up his rhythm and ride his husband in earnest. He holds Nicolò’s gaze as he bounces in his lap, wraps his still-slick fingers around his own erection. Nicolò’s gaze drips down, and he moans low and desperate. “No more words?” Yusuf teases, but he’s breathless, too. His body clenches around the thick length splitting him open, unwilling to let it go far.

Nicolò sobs, tugging on his bonds. He looks as wrecked as Yusuf feels, needy and strung out on pleasure, and this is not going to take much more, Yusuf can tell. The flush spreading down Nicolò’s chest is telling, as is the way his hips jerk up every time Yusuf slides up his length. His own dick is twitching in his hand, impossibly hot and wet with lube and his own pre-come. His thighs are starting to protest the rhythm, but he doesn’t care because he can _taste_ his release, he’s so close, and Nicolò is panting and staring up at him, not even babbling anymore between the moans falling from his lips.

Yusuf can’t say what finally pushes him over the edge – the push and pull of Nicolò’s cock in his hole, his own hand on his cock, the heat of Nicolò’s gaze, the broken moan his husband makes as he starts to come… all he does know is that it spreads up his veins like wildfire, setting flame to conscious thought and reality. He can feel his own release spill over his fingers, feel his body clench and tremble around the length impaling him, and loses himself in it.

The knots in the sash unravel with a single tug, and then Nicolò is burrowed into Yusuf’s arms, still breathing hard and shivering every now and then. They share a soft kiss, nothing more than a brush of lips against lips as heartbeats slow and breath returns to normal. Words aren’t necessary, not now.


End file.
